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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22705498">Grace Bound</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_For_King/pseuds/Castiel_For_King'>Castiel_For_King</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angel Biology (Supernatural), Angel Wings, Angelic Lore, Angels, Angst and Feels, Biblical Themes, Both from Castiel, Caring Dean, Caring Dean Winchester, Caring Sam, Caring Sam Winchester, Castiel ain't human, Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel is not ok, Castiel's True Form (Supernatural), Communication, Creature Castiel (Supernatural), Destiel - Freeform, Enochian-Speaking Castiel (Supernatural), Grace - Freeform, Happy Ending tho, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, PTSD Castiel, References to Military related trauma and conditioning, References to Norse Religion &amp; Lore, Slow Burn, Soldier Castiel, Suicidal Thoughts, Team Free Will, Team Free Will uses their words, War Themes, thoughts of self harm, wing fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:47:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>74,602</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22705498</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_For_King/pseuds/Castiel_For_King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you’re talking about the time you ate all those souls…you had to be stopped, Cas.”</p><p>“I agree,” Castiel shrugged, “But would you have tried to kill me if I was a human and had caused such chaos?”</p><p>A muscle in Dean’s jaw rippled, “We don’t deal with humans, that’s what the cops are for!”</p><p>“Dean…” Sam admonished softly, looking stricken.</p><p>Dean blinked, stunned by his own words.  “I mean…I didn’t mean –“</p><p>Castiel swallowed, closing his eyes against a lance of pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the binding or the sigil.  “Yes, you did.  And its true, in any case.”  Castiel gave him an out, but the words stung.  He wasn’t human.  Which meant he was – in a hunter’s mind – a creature. </p><p>An animal. </p><p>Something inside him felt like it was icing over...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>228</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>393</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                                   </p><p> </p><p>Castiel felt concrete crumble under his back and air rush from his lungs.</p><p>He fell to his knees, the impact of hitting the wall vibrating through his vessel so hard he felt his true form rattling around inside it like a marble in a tin can.</p><p>He spit an Enochian curse word, absolutely <em>sick</em> of banishing sigils.  If Anna were alive he’d kill her again for introducing them to humans.</p><p>As the daze from being tossed through the ether like a rag-doll subsided, flashes of memories returned to Castiel in a nauseating smear: saying goodbye to Dean, promising to look after Sam, and then promptly letting himself get banished by a woman pointing a gun at Sam’s face.</p><p><em>Well done, Castiel</em>, he sneered at himself.  He planted his feet wide when a wave of dizziness threatened to topple him.  He didn’t have <em>time</em> to fall over.</p><p>Rage bubbled up inside him like magma, because <em>of course</em>.  <em>Of course</em>.  They could never catch a break.  They were never allowed to catch their breath. </p><p>Never.</p><p>Dean was gone – <em>dead</em> – and the one task he’d asked of him, Castiel had already failed.  It hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours.  Had it even been ten?  Five?  He had no way of knowing, could not recall when he had said goodbye to the man he had pulled from Hell so few years ago. </p><p>He wondered if his Father had known this was how things would turn out.  He wondered at the irony of it.  Castiel had left Hell with one Righteous Man and several less brothers and sisters and now Dean had <em>died</em> to fix <em>God’s</em> mistake.</p><p>Castiel wondered if, even at the very height of his blind faith and obedience, if he would have been able to make any sense of this.</p><p>But he was veering somewhat off track with these thoughts.</p><p>Gods, but he <em>hated</em> how frazzled being banished left him.</p><p>He seethed.  It had been a long time since he’d last felt such pure, holy, wrath coursing through him and Castiel lashed out at the innocent wall he’d been thrown against, slamming his fist into the fissure left from the impact and feeling satisfied when the concrete was obliterated, showering him with pebbles and dust.  Inside the wall, he wrapped his fingers around the first thing he touched and ripped it back out, feeling the muscles in his whole body turn to steel as his grace infused every atom.</p><p>A large pipe bent and groaned when he pulled it from the wall like it was nothing more than copper wire.</p><p>It went sailing across the deserted parking lot, smashing against the ground with a deafening <em>clang,</em> and water sprayed out of the ragged, gapping hole in the wall.</p><p>Castiel closed his eyes, feeling no better for the small amount of destruction he’d caused.  If anything, his heart felt as if it might burst from his chest at any moment, gushing blood over the cold concrete just like water gushed from the broken pipe.</p><p>He hauled a breath through his nose with great effort, swallowed down the scream in his throat, and squeezed his eyes around the prickle of frustrated tears.</p><p>Just <em>once</em>, could they catch a break?  Just once could they be given a moment a reprieve?  A moment to rest?  A moment to <em>grieve</em>?</p><p>His cellphone vibrated against his leg and he nearly broke his fingers shoving his hand in to his pocket to pull it out.  He jabbed the green button under the ‘<em>Unknown Caller</em>’ and brought the phone to his ear, choosing to ignore the way his hands shook.</p><p>Angels – soldiers – were not allowed to shake.  They were not allowed to crumble.  <em>He</em> was not allowed to come apart and lose control.</p><p>“Sam?!” He barked the name into his phone, biting down on his tongue until he could feel the pain of it and taste the blood.  Used it to <em>focus</em> and stop the tremble that was running through him like a rumbling volcano.</p><p>“<em>Cas!”</em></p><p>The air rushed from Castiel’s lungs again and for a long moment, he didn’t bother refilling them.  All he could hear was the sound of pressurized water blasting out of the wall beside him, or maybe it was the sound of blood roaring between his ears.  It was difficult to tell.</p><p>“<em>Cas, you there?”</em></p><p>He stared around then, trying to find some explanation.  A witch in the trees or a demon in the gas station, mind strangely numb even though his chest ached and something deep inside him felt in danger of rupturing.</p><p>He felt a bit like a concrete pillar in an earthquake.  He was strong, but with the earth constantly heaving violently under his feet, eventually he would crumble.</p><p>He spit a mouthful of blood onto the pavement.</p><p>“<em>Cas?!”</em></p><p>Though his eyes roamed the deserted area, there was no one.  It was only him and the voice in his ear. </p><p>He swallowed heavily, copper on his tongue, forcing the tremor running up his legs to just <em>stop it already</em> before it brought him to his knees.  He shoved grace into his muscle fibres and turned them to stone.</p><p>“…Dean?”</p><p>A harsh breath through the receiver.  “<em>Jesus Christ, Ca – ow!  Ok, ok sorry…jeez</em>.”</p><p>Dean was talking to someone else, whoever he was with, but it hardly registered in Castiel’s sluggish brain. </p><p>“You’re alive…you can’t be alive,” Castiel mumbled, blinked, swallowed and felt his legs shaking again already. “You can’t…”</p><p>“<em>Yeah, Cas, I’m alive.  It’s a long story but I’m on my way back to the bunker</em>.”</p><p>Castiel blinked and suddenly his brain was coming back on line, flickering to life like power returning to chunks of a city.  This was a mission.  This was something he could latch on to, something he could strengthen himself with against the earthquake.</p><p>He smeared the blood in his mouth against the inside of his cheek, forcing more of the copper tang against his taste buds.</p><p>Dean was alive.  Dean was going to the bunker.  Castiel was not there and they needed to find Sam.</p><p><em>Yes</em>.  A plan.  A <em>mission</em>. </p><p>Now he just needed orders and everything would fall in to place.</p><p>“I’m not there,” he said, because on some level he was sure that was important information for Dean to know.</p><p>Dean, who was alive and driving in the Impala as if he hadn’t been dead mere moments ago.  Back to the bunker where Sam was not because Castiel had failed <em>again</em>.</p><p>His heart gave an aching beat.  What <em>good</em> was a soldier that could not follow orders?</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“<em>What?  What do you mean you’re not there, what the hell happened, I was gone for less than ten fuc – freaking hours!”</em></p><p>“I…I was banished.  By a woman.  She was in the bunker waiting for us when we got back.”  So late it was almost embarrassing, Castiel realized he needed to find out where the hell he was if he had any hope of getting back to help right the latest mistake he’d made and he straightened, shaking off the shock of hearing Dean’s voice and looking around for any clues that might tell him where he was.</p><p>Because Dean was alive and Sam was missing and Castiel was going to…do something about it.  What, exactly, he’d figure out later.  Step one was figuring out where he’d been banished to in the first place.</p><p>He was in a remote area, the gas station the only thing he could see in either direction down the single road in front of him.  The tall fir trees all around kept him from seeing very far, so he turned back to the building, noting the little sign in the door that said ‘closed’.</p><p>Probably for the best, since he’d just ripped out half the wall in a fit of rage.  Which now felt ridiculous given that Dean was alive and perfectly fine.</p><p>Speaking of, the man was prattling on in his ear and Castiel tried to pay attention as he walked to the doors and smashed the window in.</p><p>Beside him, a small lake was gathering in a dip in the time-ravaged parking lot.  The water continued to rush out of the wall as if there was an unlimited supply of it.</p><p><em>“What was that</em>?”  Dean asked.  He sounded alarmed.</p><p>And what a strange thing that was to hear, Castiel thought.  What a strange, strange thing it was to hear alarm in Dean’s voice when Castiel had thought he was dead. </p><p>Detached and faded, something like shock was seeping in to Castiel’s veins, pressing up against the metaphorical rebar he’d hammered through himself and corroding it.</p><p>“I’m at a gas station.  I’m breaking in to find a map.  I don’t know where I am.”</p><p>
  <em>“You think you’re still in the US?”</em>
</p><p>“Definitely.”</p><p>
  <em>“Well you landed in Australia the last time.”</em>
</p><p>“The last time I was banished I had my wings and was…not of sound mind.  I vaguely remember flying for a while before I even remembered I’d been banished at all.  By then I was in Perth.”</p><p>“<em>Right</em>…”</p><p>“I’m in Colorado.”  Eyeing a rack of maps, he tried to remember where the hell they had all been when they said goodbye to Dean, but his mind was still refusing to fully cooperate.  Looking down at the map he had just grabbed, he remembered it would be of little use if he didn’t know <em>where</em> in Colorado he was.</p><p>“<em>Shit, we’re in Kansas but we’re still an hour or two away from the Colorado border.  You know where in Colorado?”</em></p><p>Resisting the urge to snap back about the lack of <em>‘You Are Here’</em> posters, Castiel moved behind the counter and started riffling through some paperwork.  It took less then five seconds to find a piece of mail with the address on it.</p><p>“Apache City,” he read out loud.</p><p>Dean mumbled for him to hang on, told whoever was in the passenger seat to take the wheel for a second and then, presumably, googled the town on his phone.  Castiel listened, honing in on the sounds of two people mumbling and moving around and belatedly realized that Dean had said ‘<em>we</em> are in Kansas’.</p><p><em>We</em>?  Who would Dean have in the car with him if Sam was gone and Castiel was in Colorado?  He was just about to ask, something cold swelling behind his ribs without reason, when Dean’s voice, sharp and too loud, made Castiel flinch and forget what he’d even wanted to ask.</p><p>“<em>Shit, you’re in the middle of freaking nowhere.”</em></p><p>Right.  Mission.  <em>Focus, soldier</em>.</p><p>“I know that already.” </p><p>“<em>Alright, smart ass, start walking.  There’s only one gas station near that town so that must be the one you’re at.  Turn left down the road in front of you and you should find the highway in less than a half an hour.  Head north on the highway and we’ll be coming at you from the other direction.</em>”</p><p>Castiel sighed and did as he was told.  “I miss my wings.”  <em>Missing them won’t bring them back.  </em></p><p>
  <em>Focus! Soldier!</em>
</p><p>Dean’s voice softened, “<em>I know.  Be careful Cas, I’m on my way</em>.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It had rained in Apache City the night before and the long grass on the side of the highway was wet.  It whipped at his legs as he walked, soaking the thin fabric within minutes.  The air was still and heavy with the passing of a storm and a grey canopy over his head told Castiel that the sun would not manage to struggle through today. </p><p>He didn’t mind.  The overcast sky felt a bit like a heavy blanket and the tremble in his nerves seemed to calm a little under the comforting weight of the dreary weather.</p><p>It was lucky his grace was strong enough now that he didn’t need to eat or sleep.  Though even so, he felt tired.  Actually, if he was being honest with himself, he was exhausted, which didn’t make any sense at all.  He had his grace, mangled though it felt.  Dean was alive.  Sam was missing but…they would find him.  They <em>would</em>.  He would not allow Dean to narrowly escape death <em>again</em> just to come back and find out that Castiel had let him down.  <em>Again</em>. </p><p>All in all, things were far better than Castiel had been expecting, but his feet and legs still ached with every step and his head still felt like it was full of sand.  His throat stung with dryness and the weight of something intangible threatened to pull him down so hard he worried it might flip him inside out.  It made it difficult to turn down the three people that had pulled over on the side of the highway to offer him a ride as far as they were going.  He thanked them for their kindness but insisted that he was fine.  He didn’t want to risk driving right by Dean going the other way.</p><p>They had all been confused, as most people were when they tried to talk to him, taking in his smart suit and the lack of perspiration on his brow, and let him be with nothing more than a bemused smile and a “Well, if you’re sure.”</p><p>Castiel had just managed to let himself sink in to the familiar and mind-numbing trance of a long and steady march on aching legs when the sound of the Impala roaring in the distance caught his ear.  He heard it before any human would and smiled – a pitiful twitch of his lips – knowing the sound of that car more than an angel should.  He crossed the two lanes and trudged through the soggy median and across the other two lanes just as the Impala came over a gentle hill in the road.</p><p>The tires squealed and gravel sprayed in a shower as Dean pulled over and the hunter was out of the car before it had even come to a full stop, grin splitting his face as he barrelled in to Castiel and tried his best to crush him in a hug.</p><p>“Man, it’s good to see you,” Dean muttered against his shoulder.</p><p>“And you, considering I never thought I would again.”  Castiel had to remind himself not to hug the fragile human back as hard as he wanted and pulled away sooner than he’d have liked to.  Dean was warm and solid and <em>real</em>; he felt like something Castiel could hold on to while everything shook and splintered around him.</p><p>He made himself step back.  His legs were shaking again.  “Dean, what about Sam –”</p><p>“Sam’s fine,” Dean quickly explained, still smiling, still with both hands on Castiel’s shoulders.  “I got a hold of him two hours ago.  He’s fine.  We’re fine.  Everything is fine.”</p><p>It didn’t sound real and Castiel struggled to understand.  Three times he opened and closed his mouth without saying anything, hearing gravel crunch under his boots, hearing the woosh of cars speeding by, feeling the moisture of another storm building in the air – and understanding none of it.</p><p>Fine meant…well it meant <em>fine</em>.  It meant no mission.  It meant he had nothing to focus on.  It meant…he wasn’t sure what the entirety of <em>fine</em> encompassed but he was quite sure that it was not, ironically, anything good.  Not for him.</p><p>“Cas?” </p><p>It wasn’t the first time Dean had called his name.</p><p>Castiel let his eyes snap sideways, to where he could make out the back of a blond head of hair in the passenger seat.</p><p>“Who is that?” he asked, because he figured he was supposed to, redundant though it seemed – obviously if Dean trusted her she was probably alright.</p><p>Dean’s eyes narrowed and flicked this way and that over his face, making Castiel wonder what the hunter was looking for.  But then his expression cleared and a small and achingly tentative smile curled the corner of his lips, moving freckles around his face.</p><p>“It’s my mom,” Dean nearly whispered.  There was incredulity in his voice and something close to awe.</p><p>Castiel blinked, once again trying to will his brain to start processing the information coming at him.  But it felt like throwing rocks at a castle wall.</p><p>Why was he on the outside of his own mind?  And why did something like this – something that should be like a wrecking ball to that castle wall  – feel like a pebble?  Dean’s <em>mother</em> was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala and Castiel <em>knew</em> that was bigger than it felt.</p><p>What was <em>wrong</em> with him?</p><p>Dean’s hand settling on his shoulder might as well have been a cattle prod and Castiel jerked back into the foreground, his gaze quickly snapping back to Dean.  He looked worried again, all reverence for his mother replaced by the much more familiar worry lines around his troubled green eyes.</p><p>Dean’s other hand came to rest on the side of his face and Castiel stared blankly, nonplused, as Dean’s thumb slid under his chin, gently urging him to look up a little more.</p><p>“Look at me,” Dean asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.</p><p>Castiel nearly pointed out that he already was, but then he realized it wasn’t his vessel’s eyes he was watching Dean with.</p><p>He made his human eyes rise to Dean’s.  “What are you doing?”</p><p>“You just need some rest, that’s all,” Dean told him, as if that answered his question.  As if he had <em>asked</em> a question.</p><p>The short conversation was doing nothing to help ease the disconnected and misaligned feeling Castiel was struggling to understand.  He felt like he was missing whole chunks of understanding; even though he frequently had a hard time reading between the lines that Dean spoke, this was something altogether different.</p><p>Why couldn’t he <em>think</em> properly?</p><p>Perhaps that banishing sigil had hit him harder than he thought.  He poked at his grace.  It stabbed back.</p><p>Dean was pushing him by the shoulder, steering him towards the car.  Where his mother was waiting.</p><p>She stared at Castiel through the window, offering a small, tentative smile under dazed blue eyes.  He supposed being dead for thirty years and then suddenly not <em>would</em> be a bit jarring.</p><p>“Cas.”</p><p>He looked over.  With his human face.  <em>Tedious</em>.</p><p>Dean was holding the back door open, gesturing for him to sit in the seat behind his mother.</p><p>“Come on, buddy, get in.”</p><p>The leather gave under his weight and Castiel sunk gratefully in to it, feeling as if his bones had suddenly turned to lead now that he’d finally stopped moving for a second. </p><p>Dean was pushing at his shoulder again and Castiel glared without managing to turn his head and aim it at Dean.</p><p>“Lay down, Cas.”</p><p>What for?  Castiel wanted to ask.  There were things to be done and sitting up would be much better to do them.  He needed to be debriefed, first of all. </p><p>Dean’s <em>mother</em> was sitting in the passenger seat. </p><p>Dean was <em>alive</em>. </p><p>Things were <em>fine</em>. </p><p>An explanation was in order.</p><p>“Cas…Cas, lay down, it’s ok.  Just lay down.”</p><p>But <em>why</em>, though?  He realized then that he didn’t care.  Dean was still pushing against his shoulder, his gentle touch much more irritating than the hunter likely intended.  So he gave in, he laid down across the back seat, and curled his arms around the leather jacket that appeared under his head.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>The searing agony of pointed screws burrowing into his brain.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Iron shackles biting into his wrists.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The burn of his own blade sinking through his vessel and peircing his body.</em>
</p><p>Castiel scrambled away, his chest seizing and eyes snapping open.  Dean was in front of him, his hand hovering in the air between them as if frozen in time, and the hard bulges of the door were digging hard into Castiel’s back.</p><p>“You’re ok, Cas,” Dean assured him.  He spoke so softly.  So un-Dean like.  “We’re home, we just…here, let me help you.”</p><p>Castiel flinched away from Dean’s hand without knowing why, grace flaring behind his ribs and crackling along his finger tips like faulty wires. Twisting to grab the handle, he shouldered the door open, smothering the urge to lash out like a trapped animal.</p><p>Outside, the crisp fresh air felt too thick to make it down his constricted throat, but that didn’t stop Castiel’s lungs from trying to suck as much of it down as they could.</p><p>For a moment he let himself mourn the days where he could tell his vessel to do something and it would obey.  He could shut emotions off as easy as flicking a switch.  He could push muscle and bone and blood beyond their natural capacity.  He could rip his own arm off and beat someone with it if he’d felt compelled.</p><p>Now…now he rested his elbows on the roof of the car and threaded his fingers into his hair, trying to slow his breathing, noticing for the first time the coldness that was spreading through his gut and the tight feeling in his chest – like there was a thick rubber band around his rib cage.</p><p>“Cas…”</p><p>A gentle breeze carried Dean’s voice and the hunter sounded hesitant in the vast darkness behind Castiel’s eyelids.</p><p>He clung to the sound of the breeze moving through the tall trees around him, listened to the gentle rustle of leaves and the creaking of the thick trunks as they swayed.  Timing his breathing to the sound of the wind helped his heart and his mind to slow down as well and, after a few moments, Castiel no longer felt as if he was in danger of splitting at the seams.  His grace sputtered and hissed one last time before he finally felt calm enough to pull it back in and he took one last, deep breath.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said before he’d even opened his eyes, sounding like a broken record even to himself.</p><p>Sorry I couldn’t protect Sam.  Sorry I couldn’t fight off Rowena’s spell.  Sorry I nearly beat you to death.  Sorry you had to come get me because I wasn’t paying attention and got banished.  Sorry I couldn’t tell you apart from a nightmare.  Sorry I can’t seem to do anything right.</p><p>
  <em>Sorry, sorry, sorry…</em>
</p><p>“It’s ok,” and the careful, gentle way Dean spoke was like a nail through Castiel’s heart.  He very narrowly stopped himself from clutching his chest, once again left wondering <em>why</em>.</p><p>Why did he feel as if he was on the verge of collapsing in on himself like a dying star?  He’d died before on the end of his own blade.  This felt disturbingly similar, but no matter how many times he rubbed his hand across his chest, he found no wounds.</p><p>This was human.  This was emotion.</p><p>This was <em>bullshit</em>.</p><p>Dean was talking to him again, being so careful in the way he moved and spoke that Castiel found it unnerving.  He inched away, feeling infinitely guilty for it even as he did so.  It didn’t help when Dean looked as if he’d been punched in the gut, his hand outstretched into the air between them as Castiel backed away.</p><p>Clenching his jaw so hard Castiel could see the muscle jump, Dean let his hand drop.</p><p>Castiel’s throat tightened ominously.  “I’m sorry…I’m just – I’m just tired.”  It was a weak excuse but it was the only one he had.</p><p>“I know,” Dean told him.  The gravel under his worn boots crunched loudly when he shifted his feet.  “Come on, let’s get inside and you can get some sleep, ok?  You can sleep as long as you want, I promise.”  He tried to smile, but it looked more like he urgently needed the washroom instead.</p><p>It wasn’t what Castiel had meant by ‘tired’ but he chose not to correct the man.  He didn’t sleep.  He didn’t <em>need</em> to sleep.  He probably <em>couldn’t</em> even if he tried.  Which was probably for the best, he thought, following Dean through the heavy metal door to the bunker.  He remembered what sleep was like from when he was human.  As if willingly falling unconscious wasn’t terrifying enough, his brain had, most confusingly, been primed to make his sleep as horrifying and unrestful as possible. </p><p>No.  He would not sleep.  It wouldn’t do anything other than leave him vulnerable, and he’d been feeling enough of that as it was lately without subjecting himself to more of it.</p><p>At the bottom of the iron staircase, Sam was standing before his mother, both of them dancing without moving.  Unsaid words hung between them like the delicate bubbles he’d seen children at parks playing with and there was a palpable air of something charged and electric in the war room.</p><p>It took him longer than it should have to realise Sam’s arm was in a sling.</p><p>Right.  He’d been shot.  Probably by that woman.</p><p>“You’re hurt,” he needlessly declared.</p><p>He was already raising his hand, grace sputtering along his frayed nerve endings.</p><p>Dean’s hand clamped around his wrist and his arm was pushed back down and then he was quickly shoved in the direction of the dorms.</p><p>“Dean?”  Why wouldn’t Dean let him heal Sam?  It was one of the few things he could still do.  And after all, it was his fault Sam was even in need of healing.  If he’d only been more careful, if he’d only stayed more aware of his surroundings instead of selfishly allowing himself to grieve Dean’s death so thoroughly –</p><p>“You need to rest, Cas, not use up your grace healing some scratch.”  The hands on his shoulders eased their grip a little.</p><p>“I’m not…I don’t need – Dean, I’m <em>fine</em>,” the words didn’t snap as much as he thought they would, given how irritated and on edge he felt.</p><p>Dean spun him around right there in the middle of the hall, settling both hands on Castiel’s shoulders and holding him in place.  When he stared at Castiel, Castiel thought Dean’s eyes looked a bit more dull than normal, the green faded from its usual vibrancy.  But when he moved all of his eyes around, he rather thought that could be said for everything around him.  Had the old lead paint on the walls always been so…grey looking?</p><p>“Cas, you are <em>not</em> ok and I really need you to take off your coat, change into the pj’s I’m gonna give you and <em>sleep</em>.  Can you do that for me?”</p><p>He felt his mouth open but halted the words for a moment.  He could not promise Dean that he would sleep, because he wouldn’t.  It became obvious then, as he read the eager yet strained expression on the man’s face, that he probably wanted to go spend time with his newly resurrected mother.</p><p>Heat pushed in to Castiel’s face and he took a step back, letting Dean’s hands slip from his shoulders.</p><p>Of course the brothers would want to spend time with their mother.  Of course they would.  And they wouldn’t want <em>him</em> intruding on such a private family reunion. </p><p>“Ok,” he quietly agreed.  He could give Sam and Dean this time alone.  He would pretend to sleep and stay out of the way like they needed.  It was the least he could do after all the trouble he had caused.</p><p>Suddenly he was simply grateful they were letting him stay at all.  He wondered how long he had before they would grow tired of his presence once more.  Perhaps it would be best if he left before they felt the need to ask him to.  It wouldn’t be so bad this time, he reasoned even as his heart squeezed itself dry.  He wasn’t human, he had his grace – and his mind – back.  He only needed enough time to heal a bit more.  Just a few days, maybe a week, to smooth down the raw and jagged edges from where Lucifer had been ripped from him and from where Rowena’s curse had dug its claws in deep.</p><p>When they reached the room he was to stay in, Castiel wasted no time shrugging out of his coat and tossing it over the foot of the bed.  Reaching for his tie he looked up in time to catch Dean staring at him with a deep frown before the hunter cleared his throat and left the room, mumbling that he’d be back in a minute.</p><p>Castiel felt like he was stripping off layers of armor rather than clothing.  By the time he had tossed his suit jacket and tie on top of his trench, his fingers were shaking too badly to properly manage the tiny buttons on his shirt.</p><p>‘<em>You’re being ridiculous</em>,’ he told himself.  It was just a shirt.  It was made of cotton, not chain-mail.  It would do nothing to impede the point of a blade.  He was no safer with it on than off.</p><p>“Here you go.”</p><p>Castiel flinched at the sudden sound of Dean’s voice, ripping the top two buttons right off and blinking as they pinged against the floor.  Heat pushed in to his face again.</p><p>“Sorry,” Dean nearly whispered, hands clenching around the flannel pyjama bottoms he was holding.</p><p>Shame, Castiel remembered, was a disgusting feeling, and his lip curled around the sour taste of it, his gut swooping.  Frustrated, he tugged on either side of his shirt, feeling a tiny amount of satisfaction when the rest of the buttons pinged off the floor.</p><p>He tossed the shirt on his pile of clothes and turned to Dean with his hand outstretched.  But Dean was staring at him, his dull green eyes wide and worried.</p><p>Irritation smeared itself across the heat of shame in his chest and Castiel snapped.  “You want me to change, right?”</p><p>As soon as he said it he realized it sounded strange.  The kind of thing that would make Dean sputter and make some kind of joke before quickly leaving the room.</p><p>“I…” Dean swallowed.  “I just want you to be comfortable.  You look…” he cleared his throat like he was gargling rocks.  “Here, just…”</p><p>Castiel took the proffered clothing and watched Dean’s back until he was out of the room and his footsteps had faded down the hall.  Back towards where his mother and brother were waiting.  Only then, when he was sure he was alone, did Castiel close the door and jam the desk chair under the handle.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Lucifer twisted his grace, crushing it like tendons against bone, and Castiel groaned.  He was trapped, being punished for clawing free to save Sam from his demented brother.  He didn’t regret it, only wished that Lucifer would show him mercy and kill him already.</em>
</p><p><em>But no, the agony of Lucifer’s wrath went on and on and </em>on<em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>“Please,” Castiel begged.  “Kill me, brother, please!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lucifer burned so bright and fierce that even Castiel had to close all of his eyes.  Calling him a star did not do him justice, and Castiel felt himself burning in the light of his sibling’s Holy power.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Castiel had not been made with the ability to fight against an archangel’s will, only to bend to it. </em>
</p><p><em>Something pulled deep inside him, like a hook digging into a pig carcass, and </em>pulled<em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>He screamed.</em>
</p><p>“<em>Castiel!</em>”</p><p>His eyes flew open and his heart crammed itself into his throat.  Gasping for air, Castiel wrenched himself free of the hands holding him and hit the floor, crowding back against the nearest wall.</p><p>Echoes of pain stabbed through him, stealing the breath from his lungs and making him choke.  He could feel Lucifer’s tainted light glaring through the cracks in his body, could feel his brother curling around him like a snake and crushing, crushing, <em>crushing</em> –</p><p>Struggling to suck air down his throat, Castiel snarled, suddenly angry. </p><p>
  <em>Just kill me…kill me, kill me…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please…</em>
</p><p>He struggled for control, feeling his grace trying to fight back.  It crackled along his synapses and sparked from his fingertips, eager to fight and claw and bite.  His grace – his <em>true</em> self – wanted to reclaim something.  It wanted to take <em>back</em>.  And the urge to just <em>let himself</em> was overwhelming.</p><p>He lashed out; let a razor-sharp tendril of grace whip around him like flaming barbed-wire, snarling from where he was crouched in the corner of his fractured mind.  If he wasn’t going to be granted the mercy of death then he would make Lucifer regret not snuffing him out when he had the chance.</p><p>If Lucifer wanted to treat him like an animal then Castiel would not disappoint.  He scrounged up every scrap of angelic savagery that had led him to victory on countless battlefields and gathered it close, pressing it down until it was ready to spring like a grenade and obliterate anything unfortunate enough to be too close.</p><p>There was a reason he’d won so many battles.  There was a reason he kept getting back up every time he was cut down.  He was a weapon of incomprehensible destruction.  His Father had created him to destroy and he was going to destroy Lucifer or obliterate himself trying.</p><p>“<em>Cas, please…”</em></p><p>He froze.</p><p>Lucifer did not whisper.  Lucifer did not beg. </p><p>Slowly, amid the maelstrom of grace and rage, he opened his eyes.</p><p>His grace spun around him like a tornado, forming a shield of light that was scraping the paint from the walls. Through the ribbons of blue and white and searing heat enveloping him he could see two figures crouching not far away.  Arms flung up to shield their eyes.</p><p><em>Sam and Dean</em>.</p><p>He was in the bunker.</p><p>Lucifer was dead.</p><p>The realization would have put him on his knees if he hadn’t already been crouching against the wall like a frightened, savage beast.  Even after realizing the danger he was putting them in, Castiel was finding it alarmingly difficult to stop. </p><p>He’d been in a car accident before, remembered how the driver had frantically stomped the break pedal against the floor, but it had been too little too late.</p><p>“I can’t,” he warned them, trying to sound much calmer than he was. But his angelic voice betrayed him, banging against the walls like a ship smashing in to an iceberg and making the brothers fold in on themselves even tighter.</p><p>They cowered before him.  Like humans were supposed to when an angel was threatening to annihilate them.</p><p>A cry pried itself from his throat.  Not of panic, or of rage, but of despair.  All-consuming and absolute.  He was as out of control as he felt and he was going to kill these poor humans that he had tried so hard for so long to keep safe.  And now, after everything, he was going to destroy them himself.</p><p>The sound of his cry shattered the lights and sent cracks snaking up through the concrete walls.</p><p>He tried to tell them he was sorry, but he couldn’t breathe.  He had pulled up every ounce of power for a last stand against an enemy that wasn’t even real anymore and now he was going to bring about the ruin of everything he’d been trying to protect.  Everything he’d fallen for.  Everything he’d died for.</p><p>Castiel could not tell if it was the light of his own grace or the darkness of his blind panic that was filling his vision as power crackled along his every limb and through his every bone, gathering in a crescendo of flame and light.</p><p>He wanted to tell them to run, but when he opened his mouth, light so blinding and bright it <em>sang</em> poured forth.</p><p>Then everything, inexplicably, impossibly...<em>stopped</em>.</p><p>As jarring as what he might imagine getting hit with a comet might feel like, Castiel’s grace was shoved back down in to the core of his true being so violently that it ripped a scream from his throat and he felt his back collide with the wall.</p><p>He hit the floor, could feel his whole body convulsing from the tips of his fingers all the way to his toes as his grace seethed and clawed at his insides.  He tried not to fight the agony of it, but that was as easy as trying not to pull free of a snare.  And so he struggled with all the panic of an animal with a wire around it’s neck as his grace was roughly – barbarically – bound.  </p><p>The seizure rolled through him and he let it. It was no less than he deserved.</p><p>After what felt like years, Castiel finally realized the seizure had passed, his chest heaved with ragged breaths, and deep, deep, down inside him he could feel his grace, so primitively but effectively bound. </p><p>It <em>hurt</em>.  Like someone had wrapped him up in red-hot barbed wire.  It was not unlike the squeeze of Lucifer’s grace.</p><p>He gagged around the constriction – the searing <em>pain</em> – of it.</p><p>Why <em>hadn’t</em> Lucifer just killed him? </p><p>“<em>Let me go</em>,” he moaned, clawing at his chest, as if he could somehow reach the binding through his vessel’s body.  But then there were hands pulling at his arms, prying his bloody hands away from his skin and pinning them against the floor.</p><p>He’d forgotten about the brothers.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Dean was panting, sucking air into his lungs like he’d spent the last hour sprinting up a hill.  He struggled to hold Castiel down.  “God, I’m so fucking sorry, Cas.”</p><p>Castiel sobbed, writhing on the floor just as his grace writhed inside him.  The longer he was bound, the tighter it seemed to crush him down and Castiel felt panic stabbing at his insides.  Why wouldn’t they release him?  His grace had been subdued, he wouldn’t be able to reach it for hours now, if not longer.</p><p>“<em>Let me go,</em>” he begged, “Please…<em>please, Dean</em>, let me go, I’ll stop, I’ll control it please, let me go, <em>let me go!</em>”</p><p>The palm of Dean’s hand was warm against his face but Castiel barely noticed it, all his awareness focused inward.  He tried to pry his hands out of Sam’s grip – he could get through his vessel, he <em>knew</em> he could, he just needed to try harder.  He could reach his grace and set it free himself.  He was <em>sure</em> of it.</p><p>He was at least sure he had to try <em>something</em>.  <em>Anything</em>.</p><p>But Sam threw his weight on to each of Castiel’s wrists and, with his power and his body bound as they were, he could not hope to overpower the man.</p><p>“Please…Dean, <em>please</em>…Sam, I’m sorry, I’m <em>sorry</em>…”</p><p>He was going to pass out.  He could feel the familiar sensation of darkness pressing in on him from all sides and he eagerly awaited it.  Anything.  Anything but this.</p><p>Dean’s hand was still on his face, his calloused thumb stroking back and forth as best it could with how much Castiel was struggling in their hold.</p><p>“<em>Let me go…let me go!”</em></p><p>“We’re <em>trying</em> Cas…hang on…we’re trying…stay with me…”</p><p>But unconsciousness came for him and Castiel rushed to greet it like a dog welcoming its master home.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>His return to consciousness was like an electric shock. </p><p>He gasped, horrified to realize his grace was <em>still</em> tightly bound…but, he probed around the throbbing power, noticed that the edges of whatever magic was binding him had become less harsh, less jagged.  It didn’t cut as deep; didn’t burn as much.</p><p>He sucked in a lungful of air. And then another.</p><p>He was lying on his bed – he’d been out for a while then, if someone had had time to move him off the floor – curled on his side, and could feel the cold bunker air on his sweaty skin.</p><p>He shivered.</p><p>When a hand settled gently over his, Castiel’s frayed nerves and adrenaline-soaked system nearly propelled him straight off the bed.</p><p>“It’s ok! You’re ok, Cas!  You’re ok,” Dean’s face was close to his, the hunter was kneeling on the floor beside his bed, both hands now gripping Cas’ hard.  “Just breathe…breathe…”</p><p>Castiel did as he was told, feeling his grace spitting and writhing in its bonds.</p><p>“Hurts,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut around the pain. </p><p>“I know,” Dean’s hands squeezed his, words coming in a rush, like he’d been waiting to say them all at once as soon as Castiel was able to hear them.  “I’m so fucking sorry, Cas.  We had to do something…you were about to go freaking nuclear on us…and, so I just…I just <em>said</em> the words for the binding.  We didn’t know it would do…<em>this</em>.  I didn’t <em>know</em>.”</p><p>Castiel was having a hard time following Dean’s words as they flew by him but he could plainly hear the pain in the man’s voice and the urgency with which he needed Castiel to hear him. </p><p>He hauled a shuddering breath into his lungs.</p><p>Even now, even as battered and mauled as he was, Castiel felt that pang in his chest, that <em>need</em> to make it better.  To make Dean feel <em>better</em>.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Dean…I lost control…I know – ” he gasped around a small seizure of power trying, and failing, to break free, “I know you had no choice,” he swallowed down a wave of nausea, hating that he could feel it at all, “but I’m not a danger anymore I – I promise, please,” he felt tears slip from under his closed eyelids, barely swallowed another retch around a wave of pain.  “<em>Please</em>, let me go.”</p><p>
  <em>Begging now, Castiel?  Gods, you’re pathetic.</em>
</p><p>“God, Cas, <em>fuck</em>.” Dean pressed his forehead to the tangle of their hands and his fingers trembled as they squeezed around the angel’s so hard that his knuckles were white.  “We don’t know <em>how</em>, the release spell didn’t <em>work</em>.  We’re trying to find…we’re <em>trying</em>.  But nothing seems to be working."  He paused, sniffing and then gruffly clearly his throat, green eyes sweeping this way and that over Castiel's face.  "We, uh, we dosed you with some heavy-duty pain killers.  Did they help?  At all?”</p><p>It was impossible to care that he’d been drugged against his will at the moment.  If that was the reason he was able to talk through the pain, Castiel was grateful.  He would do anything at all if it would blunt his senses.</p><p>He jerked his head in a single nod and shamelessly asked for more.</p><p>“Yeah…yeah, hang on.”</p><p>Dean, and his solid warmth, were suddenly gone, and Castiel peeled his eyes open to see the hunter fiddling with something on the nightstand.  Dean’s hands shook as he raised a small clear vial into the air, checking the level of the liquid inside before producing a syringe from somewhere and drawing liquid into the needle.</p><p>“Your hands are shaking,” Castiel observed, his laboured breathing somewhat under control now.</p><p>Dean glanced down at him, his face drawn and pale in the light of the small desk lamp.  “Your whole body is shaking, so I’m doin’ better than you,” he countered gruffly.</p><p>It took the man pointing it out for Castiel to become aware of it.  He <em>was</em> shaking, rather hard.  He couldn’t stop it even when he tried, though he didn’t try for long.  His stupid vessel didn’t do anything it was told lately.</p><p>Dean pulled a nearby chair to his bedside and reached out, gently wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s wrist and carefully pulling his arm away from where it was tucked against the angel’s body.</p><p>Castiel looked down, unable to summon the energy to even move his own arm to assist Dean.  Whatever that spell had been, it seemed to have completely incapacitated him.</p><p>He frowned, noticing the small pinpricks in the crook of his elbow.  There were seven of them.</p><p>Dean held the needle up and flicked it a few times to get rid of the air bubbles. </p><p>Castiel had seen Dean vomit on a number of occasions and the look on the hunter’s face now was indicative of it.</p><p>“How long have I been unconscious?”  Castiel asked.  He knew he was the reason behind that nauseated look on Dean’s face and didn’t want to dwell on it.  He had other, somewhat more pressing matters on which to dwell.</p><p>Dean glanced at him again, bringing the needle to the crook in Castiel’s arm, his hands suddenly steady.</p><p>“Four days.”</p><p>With the pain that was radiating from deep inside him, Castiel could not even feel the pinprick in his arm.  But he did feel it when Dean pressed down on the plunger and warmth spread efficiently from the injection site and through his entire body.</p><p>The shaking subsided into a fine tremble, and his grace calmed.  He let his eyes slide shut.  It was far from painless, but the drug had effectively taken the edge off.  He could at least breathe again.</p><p>The next time he opened his eyes, Dean was gone.  When his gaze finally focused, Castiel eyed the small glass bottle on the night stand.</p><p><em>Etorphine</em>, it said on the label.  He wondered what that was.  It worked quite well.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about the implications of a human drug working so effectively on him but he felt better now than when Dean had first given it to him; as if the drug had settled into him more solidly.</p><p>He wondered how much time had passed between then and now.  Time was such a slippery bastard on a good day, he told himself he should not bother trying to track it when he was bound and drugged.</p><p>He frowned, trying to remember <em>why</em> he was bound and drugged.  Something had happened.  Or something had almost happened.  He’d almost done something…bad.</p><p>He nearly laughed; that didn’t help him narrow anything down.  He’d done and almost done a lot of bad things.  Which one of them was this?</p><p>He swallowed heavily, the drugs in his blood making his head slow. </p><p>He’d almost done something bad and Dean and Sam had had to…</p><p>Dread bloomed in his stomach.  Sam and Dean had bound him.  But they’d <em>had</em> to.  He’d almost hurt them.  Possibly almost killed them.</p><p>Definitely almost killed them.</p><p>His grace throbbed.</p><p>He was so broken he doubted even Naomi would be able to fix him, but for the first time, he found himself wishing she was still alive.  He’d have gotten in her chair willingly this time, if it meant she might be able to glue some of his pieces back together.  What good was he to anyone now?  He was chained, subdued, and useless, stuffed in a concrete box under the ground.</p><p>
  <em>How pitiful.</em>
</p><p>Although, if the universe refused to let him die, he supposed this was the next best solution.  At the very least, if he was incapable of leaving this bed, then he could do no more harm.</p><p>For a while Castiel laid there, unable to do much else.  But the less slippery time got, the more agitated his grace became.  He fought against the bonds even though he knew it would only hurt more if he did.  Like a rabbit in a snare, he was only making it worse by struggling.</p><p>He knew this, so why couldn’t he <em>stop</em>?</p><p>Panic inched its way back into his awareness, his body curling into the fetal position as the pain of his bonds burned through the medication numbing his nerves.</p><p>He couldn’t help but think of Naomi again.  She used to bind him like this when he was being ‘difficult’, as she put it.  But it had been hard, seeing that drill coming towards his eye.  Instinct <em>made</em> him struggle.  He liked to think it would make anyone struggle, no matter their rank.</p><p>At least her binding had been strong and clean.  Not like…<em>this</em>.  This jagged, dirty, primitive, monstrosity of a spell.</p><p>The bonds squeezed out of nowhere, as if they could hear him, choking him with the suddenness of it.</p><p>There was a way to calm those bonds but he couldn’t remember what it was.  Something he could use.  Dean had shown him.  Or Dean had given it to him?  Regardless, Dean had been involved in easing the pain.</p><p>He wondered if he should call for the man.</p><p>Why couldn’t he <em>think</em>?</p><p>The bonds squeezed again, wringing a groan from his chest like water from a cloth.  The pressure was becoming unbearable again.  He felt like he was being crushed. He needed to release it.</p><p>Then, suddenly, it occurred to him.</p><p>His blade. </p><p>He peeled his eyes open.  The room was dark, the bedside lamp had been turned off, but he didn’t need to be able to see to manifest his blade into his hand.  That blade was a part of him, after all; forged from a shard of one of his claws and a peice of his grace, back when he'd had plenty to spare.  With effort, Castiel pushed aside the growing pain of his bindings and slid his arm free of where he’d had it wedged between his chest and the mattress.</p><p>When his fingers first wrapped around the cool handle, his grace spiked furiously, trying to complete the connection to his blade like a starving dog trying to reach a bone through the bars of its cage.  When the spell constrincted around him violently in response, It very nearly ripped a scream from him, but he bit his tongue hard, tasting blood, to keep the noise inside.</p><p>He mustn’t make noise.  Then Dean would come and he would not approve of Castiel’s plan – he often didn’t – and would surely try to stop him.  But Dean did not have grace, or wings.  Dean was not an angel that could be bound.  He would not understand and what humans do not understand, they fear.</p><p>He hugged his blade to his chest for a moment, just breathing, trying to settle his mind in the hopes that maybe he wouldn’t have to do this at all if he could just <em>think</em> of another way out.</p><p>But no.  The crushing strength of his bonds wouldn’t relent and he couldn’t take it anymore.</p><p>He lifted his arm over his shoulder and blindly positioned the point of the blade over his fourth rib, right next to his spine.  He’d hoped the pain of his grace being strangled might distract from the pain of the incision he was making.</p><p>Alas, he grit his teeth as he dragged the blade upward, cutting himself open from ribs to shoulder blade.</p><p>When he was done and he could feel hot blood streaming down and soaking into the mattress, Castiel only barely managed to roll on to his other side and repeat the process on his right.</p><p>The blade was slippery and it slid from his lax fingers, clattering to the floor.  This was messy, but not as messy as it would have been without the incisions.</p><p>Castiel took a few steadying breathes, smelling and tasting nothing but copper, his bloody fingers curling in the sheet to brace himself, and then purposefully reached into the ether and pulled his wings over.</p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Art by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ellabrennanbutler/v">Ella Brennan</a></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please feed your writers and leave a comment :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Castiel could breathe again. </p><p>He rolled on to his stomach and flexed his wings gently and slowly.  This was the first time he had manifested his wings in a human vessel since…well since Biblical times.  And then they had been whole and he had been healthy. </p><p>He moved carefully, feeling for the differences between then and now. </p><p>Miracle of miracles, he felt no pain from them.  Evidently, they had deteriorated to the point where there was no feeling left in them.  Or else they had healed over with scar tissue.</p><p>He couldn’t bare to look over his shoulder and check which it was.  Either way, they were no longer wings, but at least they didn’t hurt anymore.</p><p>A bitter laugh punched from his chest. </p><p>Oh, how far had he fallen to think dead wings were a blessing?</p><p>That was a question best left for a time when he was feeling less homicidal, he decided, and instead he focused on the fact that his idea had actually worked.</p><p><em>That’s two miracles in two minutes</em>, his inner dialogue sneered.</p><p>After the fall, Castiel had purposely severed his wings from the rest of his being as completely as he could without actually cutting them off.  It was the only way he’d managed to survive; the only way he was able to take one step after the other until he found his way back to Sam and Dean.</p><p>He couldn’t feel them; couldn’t see them; couldn’t even think about them, or the grief would have paralyzed him.  He’d caught a glimpse of them, when he first woke on that forest floor and had looked back to see the exposed bones and hanging, featherless, flesh and he had retched into the dead leaves under his feet.</p><p>The pain had been…insidious.  Like that time he’d been shot with a bullet made from an angel blade.  He’d been hit with the feeling of knowing <em>something</em> was terribly wrong…but not knowing what.  And then, as soon as he laid eyes on the source of the wrongness, the pain had brought him to his knees.</p><p>Physically, it may have been the worst pain he could remember – not even Naomi drilling in to his mind and ripping out parts of it had been quite as bad as his wings burning up in the fall. </p><p>But it was the mental anguish of seeing his once magnificent, battle-scared, <em>beautiful</em> wings shredded, bleeding and broken that had ruined him.  His wings had helped him slay enemies and win battles and had carried him and those he loved away to safety more times than he could count.  To not only have lost them, but to have them ruined, to have to carry them like they were now...it was unberable.</p><p>Almost as unbearable as knowing that <em>every single one</em> of his brothers and sisters were experiencing the same horror, the same despair, the same agony…and it was all his fault.</p><p>For an angel to lose its wings was an incomprehensible loss; impossible to describe, even in their flowery language.</p><p>With practised effort, Castiel wrenched his mind free of the claws of that particularly horrific memory.  It was one he often wished he could forget but most often found himself getting lost in.  He’d almost gotten used to not having his wings.  Almost.  As if an angel could ever become used to such an unnatural thing.</p><p>He refocused, pushing the echo of that harrowing loss deep down and out of the way where it belonged.</p><p>His grace was still tightly, <em>savagely</em>, bound…but not all of it.  He could feel a filament of it sneaking through to his wings; like a prisoner holding the hand of a visiting loved one through the bars of their cell. There was a connection, an escape, into the place outside the bonds and it seemed to be working like a drain, relieving the pressure enough so that Castiel could at least <em>think</em> somewhat more clearly.</p><p>For a while Castiel just lay there, shifting the meager amount of grace in his wings to heal the incisions he had made in his back to connect them to his vessel.  He slowly, tediously, knit the skin together just enough to stop the bleeding, fusing it to the scarred skin at the base of his wings until his vessel and his wings were one entity.  There was barely enough grace stored in his wings to do it, and it felt like it took hours and hours just to stop the bleeding and heal just a single layer of skin.  But he managed it.</p><p>At the end of it, he was exhausted, but he refused to close his eyes, trying to piece together his memories from the past couple days and make some kind of sense of them.</p><p>He mostly remembered pain.  Then remembered someone pushing a needle into his arm. </p><p>He frowned and tried to push backwards in time. </p><p>Dean.  Dean had held that needle.  Dean had drugged him to help with the pain.</p><p>Sam and Dean had been the ones to bind him.</p><p>Betrayal and confusion reared against the inside of his ribs.  Why would they have done <em>this</em> to him? </p><p>He felt sick.  They <em>must</em> have had a good reason, he only had to remember it.  Subconsciously, he curled his wings around his shoulders – a small comfort – and indulged himself in the memory of what it used to feel like being in the safety of his wings.  How his feathers used to feel slipping and sliding against each other.  How warm it was.  How comforting it was.  He could almost convince himself he could feel it again.</p><p>Castiel closed his eyes and tried to focus.</p><p>He remembered Dean being dead.  Then Dean suddenly <em>not</em> being dead.  He remembered feeling strange, disconnected, confused – no real ground gained there, he thought ruefully; he often felt that way.</p><p>He’d seen Lucifer…no, he’d had a <em>nightmare</em> about Lucifer and…ah yes.  He’d almost turned the bunker in to a smoking crater because of it.</p><p>They’d had no choice.  He would have killed them all. </p><p>But he couldn’t help but think that killing him would have been better than <em>this</em>.</p><p>The sheets under him were stiff with dried blood.</p><p>He wondered how many days it had been now.  He couldn’t see the ticks on his arm in the dark, but he certainly did not have the strength to turn on the light.</p><p>He was so tired.  His graced throbbed like a sore thumb.  Castiel closed his eyes and slept.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>SAM!</em>”</p><p>Castiel woke violently, the sound of someone screaming nearby propelling him from his bed with an energy he hadn’t felt in days.  Dimly, he realised that for all the time he spent telling himself he wasn’t going to sleep he sure was doing a lot of it, and each time he woke he was reminded of why he shouldn’t have.</p><p>He stumbled back into the nearest corner like a drunk, legs feeling like lead and wings reflexively spreading for balance.  But they hit the walls and he pitched sideways – somewhat ungracefully – his center of gravity far from where he was used to it being, and crumbled to the floor in the corner of his bedroom.</p><p><em>Trapped in another box</em>, his mind reminded him mercilessly.  He tried not to panic at the realization.  It was the bunker.  If any box was safe, it was this one.</p><p>Nestled as he was in the corner, he pressed the bony joints of his wings against the walls anyway, as if he could just push them away and make more space.</p><p>Of course, it didn’t work, so he settled on willing the room to stop spinning through sheer force of will.</p><p>He barely managed it, but counted it as a victory none the less.</p><p>More noise.  Always there was noise around Sam and Dean. </p><p>Frantically, he sought of the source of it, finding Dean standing on the other side of the bed with a stricken, <em>horrified</em> expression on his face.</p><p>Ah yes.  His hideous deformity.  Castiel had not considered, in his desperation to free his wings and relieve the pressure of his bonds, that Sam and Dean would <em>see</em> them in all their mangled glory.</p><p>As if angry about the reminder of his predicament and the shame protruding from his back, his grace hissed and bucked, pushing against the bonds that only squeezed tighter in response, and Castiel doubled over, breathless.  He braced his left wing against the wall and his right against the floor, bringing both hands up to press against his sternum, trying to breathe.</p><p>“<em>SAM!</em>”  Dean screamed again, voice raw and ragged like a saw cutting through an oak knot.  His green eyes were wide, panicked, and glued to Castiel as if he wasn't entirely convinced that it was Castiel at all. </p><p>Dean’s stance was wide, his muscles coiled solid under his tshirt, fingers spread and twitching like they wanted to grab a weapon.  It was his <em>I’m ready to fight</em> stance and Castiel felt a small quiver of something quite like fear slither between his heaving ribs.</p><p>Castiel was <em>very</em> aware of his wings.  Very aware of how vulnerable he was with them out and his grace bound.  Why had he thought manifesting them would be a good idea, he must look horrible to the poor human. </p><p>Like a monster.</p><p>Sam came charging into the room with a shotgun in his hand and a wild look in his eye - given the absolute panic in Dean's voice, he likely thought his brother was on the verge of being murdered - and Castiel flared his wings defensively at the sight of the weapon.  The fact that it would do very little damage to an angel didn’t seem to matter as Castiel’s heart crammed itself into his throat.</p><p>At Castiel’s sudden movement, the barrel of the shotgun swung towards him reflexively and Castiel launched himself forward with a snarl – <em>neutralize that threat, soldier!</em> – wings snapping out and filling the room.  He saw Sam’s eyes widen, saw the barrel of the gun rise instinctively, but Castiel reached him first and sent the hunter sprawling on his back and the gun skittering away across the floor.</p><p>In the ensuing stillness, no one seemed to breathe.</p><p>Castiel fixed Sam with a glower, hands trembling, wings still spread threateningly.</p><p>His legs felt in danger of giving out, but Castiel forced himself to stay standing while he could, heart pounding against his ribs like it intended to break free. He took a step back so that he could clearly see both brothers, hating himself a little bit for how unsettled he was by their presence.</p><p>If anything, it was <em>them</em> that should by wary of <em>him</em>.</p><p>Dean frantically looked around the room once more, still trying to piece together what had happened.  He looked no less panicked, eyes dropping to the blood-caked bed and then up to Castiel’s wings, darting from one to the other without connecting the two.</p><p>“What did you – <em>are you ok</em>?!” the man finally managed to yell with great concern.</p><p>“I…”  Castiel folded his wings tightly against his back, hating how exposed he felt.  He glanced over at Sam, who was still on the floor, staring up at him with eyes as big as dinner plates, snapping back and forth from one wing to the other.  “I…feel better now.”</p><p>He grimaced, hating everything.</p><p>Dean looked down and paused, bending slowly to pick his angel blade up off the floor.</p><p>Castiel tensed, the feathers all down the backs of his wings lifting.</p><p>He blinked.</p><p>Wait…</p><p><em>Wait</em>…</p><p>After staring down at the blood-coated angel blade for a second, Dean looked up at him with eyes that were swimming with heartache.</p><p>“You did this to yourself?”</p><p>But Castiel wasn’t listening, because ice had just encased him from his toes to the tips of his hair. </p><p>He couldn’t breathe.</p><p>He couldn’t think.</p><p>…but he could sure as hell <em>feel</em>.</p><p>Like the way the hair on his arms sometimes stood on end, Castiel felt the same tingling pull all through his wings and his empty stomach heaved.</p><p>“Cas?...Cas, what’s wrong? Talk to us…”</p><p>But he couldn’t.  Slowly, so slowly he might not have been moving at all, Castiel turned his head, forcing his eyes to remain open as he looked over his shoulder.</p><p>A breath shuddered loose from his chest.</p><p>He spread his wing.</p><p>He stared at the black and deep blue and white feathers.  Every one of them pristine, sleek, and perfect.  Unburned.  Untouched.  Under his own gaze, the feathers lifted and flared as adrenaline saturated his blood stream.</p><p>His stomach heaved and he stopped breathing, allowing himself to feel the presence of them and, most importantly, the <em>wholeness</em> of them.</p><p>His knees cracked against the floor.</p><p>His face was wet.</p><p>His hands shook.</p><p>Curling over his folded knees, Castiel pressed his forehead and hands into the concrete floor, arching his wings up high over his back towards the Heavens, and inhaled a trembling breath.</p><p>“<em>Ge iad dee-ess geh sa Madiiax, dripal I nonce dooain, dripal I nonce iehusoz</em>.”</p><p>His fingers, still caked with his dried blood, curled against the floor, and a sob threatened to burst from his chest. </p><p>He let it.</p><p>“<em>Ge iad dee-ess geh sa Madiiax, dripal I nonce dooain, dripal I nonce iehusoz</em>.”</p><p>His voice shook.  His grace shook.  His wings shook.  He was so very tired.</p><p>But he prayed again, pushed his reverence and gratitude and guilt and joy and everything else that he was feeling into his words and clenched his fists.</p><p>“<em>Ge iad dee-ess geh sa Madiiax, dripal I nonce dooain, dripal I nonce iehusoz</em>.”</p><p>He wept.</p><p>The lightbulbs burst.</p><p>Castiel prayed.</p><p>“<em>Ge iad dee-ess geh sa Madiiax, dripal I nonce dooain, dripal I nonce iehusoz</em>.”</p><p>And prayed.</p><p>And <em>prayed</em>.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He realized he’d passed out only because he woke up. </p><p>Castiel was on the floor of his bedroom still, the frigid concrete had already seeped deep into his bones and he shivered, pulling his wings close from where they had spread limp across the floor.</p><p>He savoured the feel of feathers against his skin.</p><p>His grace pulsed, pure and happy and bright even within the binding. </p><p>But his heart ached, feeling as if it might shatter.</p><p>He did not deserve this.</p><p>But he couldn’t tell his Father to take his wings back.  Couldn’t tell Him he didn’t deserve them when God had decided he did.  It would be blasphemy.  It would be treason.  He could no more tell his Father that he was wrong than he could disobey an order from him.</p><p>Was his father even listening?  He couldn’t be sure, but he had to praise His mercy all the same.  What else could he do after this?</p><p>So, he did what was so deeply ingrained in him.</p><p>He prayed. </p><p>He praised his Father’s name, praised His mercy, praised His glory, and tried to ignore the shameful joy and gut-churning guilt.  How could he be so blessed and so cursed at the same time?  Why would his Father restore <em>him</em>, of all angels?  There was no one less deserving of such a gift.</p><p>It seemed a very long time that the same despairing thoughts carved circles through his mind; it was longer still before he realized there was a hand on his wing.</p><p>Gentle pressure moving from the top of his wing down, over and over.  So gentle and soft.  It was…nice.  Almost as nice as Dean’s voice as he sang – nearly whispered – somewhere behind Castiel’s head.</p><p>Castiel stopped his prayer and listened.</p><p>
  <em>“…don’t make it bad.  Take a sad song and make it better.”</em>
</p><p>Very much against his will, Castiel smiled, feeling a spark of warmth in his chest for the first time in…he couldn’t remember.  He let Dean’s surprisingly melodic voice roll over him and, for a moment, allowed himself to enjoy it.</p><p>“<em>Remember to let her under your skin, then you’ll begin to make it better.”</em></p><p>Dean switched to humming the rest of his tune, his voice rumbling over Castiel like thunder rumbled through the roof of the Impala.  The comfort of it settled into his weary bones and he let his feathers fluff up, feeling Dean’s hand freeze midway down his wing.</p><p>“Cas?”</p><p>“M’why’d you stop singing?” Castiel mumbled against the floor.  He was cold and there was much to do.  He should get up and do some of it.</p><p>But Dean’s hand may as well have been a railroad spike pinning him to the floor.  Shamelessly – if Dean was offering, Castiel would take it – he pushed his wing up in to the hunter’s unmoving hand, craving the touch and marvelling at the fact that his wings <em>could</em> be touched.</p><p>It had been a <em>very</em> long time.</p><p>Dean said nothing, but Castiel wasn’t sure he wanted him to.  The man’s silences often revealed more than his words.</p><p>Slowly, Dean’s hand resumed its course, a little firmer now that Castiel was awake.</p><p>After a moment, Dean cleared his throat, apparently unable to stay quiet any longer and Castiel waited for him to pull his hand away. </p><p>Just as well, he’d already indulged himself far more than he should have.  He didn’t deserve comfort or warmth or his wings, or anything else.  He owed debts and things that he had broken needed fixing.</p><p>As if reminded of the role it could play in his atonement, the binding around his grace contracted, digging in to him.  He refused to flinch.</p><p>“So, uh…”</p><p>Dean cleared his throat again and, before the hunter could awkwardly pull his hand away, Castiel folded his wings in tight to his back and pushed himself to his knees, sitting on his heels.</p><p>Dean looked…vaguely traumatized and Castiel frowned.  His green eyes were wide and shining with too much for Castiel to sort through.  He was rubbing the palms of his hands on his jeans and staring at Castiel as if he were a house of poorly stacked cards on a windy day.</p><p>“How are you feeling?”  Dean asked him, sounding worried and breathless.  It was an odd combination.</p><p>A truth and a lie lodged themselves in Castiel’s throat, but neither slipped through.  He looked away, unable to hold Dean’s gaze.</p><p>“Right…right, stupid question.”</p><p>Silence swelled between them like a whale carcase on the beach.  Castiel wondered which of them was going to poke it first.  Probably Dean, he reasoned.  Dean was always the one going around poking delicate things and then getting angry when things got messy.</p><p>“Cas.”</p><p>Castiel closed his eyes, bracing for the explosion.</p><p>“Look, I know that my little mud-monkey brain probably can’t even begin to understand what you’re going through…or how it feels to get your wings back, or what it even means or how – how an angel responds to trauma – ”</p><p>That had Castiel’s eyes snapping open to stare at the man.  He raked his eyes – all of them – over every centimeter of Dean’s face.  But it told him nothing – he’d never been good at reading emotions anyway – so he looked deeper.  Past his eyes and into his soul.</p><p>Because Dean Winchester did not use words like ‘trauma’.</p><p>He just didn’t.</p><p>Dean’s soul was as bright and fierce as ever.  But it was throbbing like a sore thumb.  It was in pain.  <em>Dean</em> was in pain.</p><p>“Are you hurt?” he asked.  It came out much sharper than he would have liked, but he was under a little stress, so he thought he could be forgiven for his shortness.  He’d always thought humans placed too much importance on tone anyway.</p><p>On the battlefield there was no time for this wordless dance that humans liked to do when they spoke to one another. </p><p>Dean was frozen mid sentence.  “…what?  No, I’m fine.”</p><p>“You’re in pain, I can see it in your soul.”</p><p>Dean licked his lips and briefly looked away before holding up a single finger and pinning Castiel with that look that made him feel a hundred million years younger than he was.  “Alright, ‘<em>no</em> soul-reading' is going on the list under ‘no mind-reading’, ok?  I’m workin’ on…being more…honest.”  Dean grimaced, as if he’d had to pull every one of those words out with plyers.  “And yeah, I guess I’m hurting.  I <em>am</em> hurting, just…not the way you probably think.”</p><p>Castiel frowned, not understanding.  That was no surprise, he understood little these days and his brain seemed to staunchly refuse even trying. </p><p>Something on his face must have communicated that to the man before him, because Dean signed and his expression gentled.</p><p>“You’re scaring me, Cas.”</p><p>Just like that, the fragile peace Castiel had woken up to shattered.  Coldness swept through him, the bindings around his grace squeezed tight enough to steal his breath, and shame curled behind his ribs.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he whispered.</p><p>“No listen,” Dean reached out and gently guided Castiel’s face back around to look at him.  “I said that wrong.  What I meant was I’m scared <em>for</em> you.  <em>You are not ok</em>. And Sam and me, we know how to stitch a wound or set a broken bone but…when it comes to stuff on the inside, we’re…we’re not so good at it.”</p><p>Dean let go of his face and looked away, unable to look Castiel in the eye.  He wondered how the human would feel if he knew how many eyes there actually were to look in to.</p><p>“Everything with that stupid attack-dog spell and then Lucifer riding you around and then thinking I was dead and getting banished…not to mention everything leading up to all that over the last few years I…Cas, I don’t know how you’re still standing, man.”</p><p>Despite the way he chuckled, Dean’s green eyes were glossy and his hands shook while he picked at his thumbnail.</p><p>“Uh…” Dean cleared his throat again, “I think we might be closing in on the release spell for that binding.  How are you holding up?”</p><p>Castiel blinked, feeling the bonds.  His wings twitched.  He sighed sharply through his nose.</p><p>“I don’t know what you want me to say, Dean.”</p><p>“I want you to tell me the truth.”</p><p>“No.  You don’t.”</p><p>The truth was mangled and gore-encrusted; it was messy and tear-stained; deep and ugly like a gangrenous wound.  It smelled of charred flesh and burnt feathers.  Tasted of congealed blood and tainted grace. </p><p>The truth was shredded wings and ruined bonds.  It was betrayal and failure and death and <em>lies</em> and <em>guilt</em> and <em>shame</em>.  It was the clashing of steel and the severing of limbs.  It was war and loss and countless casualties.  It was scars and hatred; division and doubt; destruction and blight -</p><p>“Cas…”</p><p>Castiel opened his eyes.  When had he closed them?</p><p>“Cas, hey, look at me…”</p><p>Dean’s hand was on his wing again, still this time, but warm and heavy.  Castiel pulled himself off of the battlefield and back into his bedroom.  Found himself staring into concerned green eyes.</p><p>“Where did you go, Cas?”</p><p>He frowned.  “I’m right here, Dean.”</p><p>Something in Dean’s expression looked close to breaking, it trembled like a window rebuffing a rock.  But he caught it, like he always did.  Castiel’s heart ached for him.  He wished he could take away Dean’s pain.  He didn’t deserve it.</p><p>Instead, Dean moved his attention to Castiel’s wings; he took his hand away but his eyes lingered and Castiel watched his gaze trail down.  His green eyes shone with what was likely a thousand questions, but his lips were pressed firmly together.</p><p>Castiel’s knees ached, and kneeling on the floor like this was awkward for him.  He could not fold his wings against his back, they were too long and the flight feathers would have to bend against the floor, so he let them hang over his shoulders instead, so the flight feathers could lay parallel to the floor.</p><p>Not that his feathers couldn’t hold up to a little bending.  They were stronger than titanium.  But that wasn’t the point.</p><p>“Tell me about your wings, Cas,” Dean demanded softly.</p><p>He assumed Dean wanted an explanation for the drama that had unfolded over the last few hours…or however long it had been.</p><p>With a jolt, he realized he hadn’t been praying for the many long minutes he and Dean had been talking and a spike of disgust and fear rammed itself down his throat.</p><p>He pitched forward, intending to redouble his efforts, feeling an itch that overtook even the fire of his bonds to praise his Father’s mercy.  To beg forgiveness.  To prostrate himself.  To serve.  To obey.</p><p>But Dean caught him before he could slap his hands to the floor, grabbing both his wrists and hauling him back upright.  Castiel’s wings flared to balance him.</p><p>“<em>No</em>, Cas.”</p><p>“I must!”  He tried to pull himself free of Dean’s grip, but he was too weak without his grace.  He beat his wings in great, sweeping gusts, kicking up dust and papers and making Dean’s flannel shirt flap wildly behind him.</p><p>But Dean wouldn’t let go and Castiel was too weak to keep fighting.</p><p>“Why?”  Dean grunted as Castiel finally relented, wings still half spread like he might have the energy to try again in a moment.  “Tell me why you need to…to pray or whatever it was you were doing!  I know it’s hard, Cas, but please just <em>try</em> to explain it to me.”</p><p>Castiel panted, hating himself for a multitude of reasons.  He wished Dean would let go of his wrists; his hands, so comforting before, now felt like shackles.</p><p>“<em>Cas</em>,” Dean waited until Castiel looked up and met his gaze.  “<em>Tell me why you need to pray.</em>”</p><p>The order might as well have been a pry-bar between Castiel’s teeth and he growled, trying again to pull free from Dean’s grip. </p><p>Dean held tight.</p><p>“<em>Because I don’t deserve this</em>!” he snarled, “I don’t <em>deserve</em> my wings back!  Why did He restore <em>me</em>?!  Why?!”  He surged in to Dean’s space, relishing the way his eyes widened with poorly concealed fear as they flicked to Castiel’s wings spread so aggressively.  “Why <em>me</em>, Dean?! The <em>least</em> deserving of any angel left?  I <em>broke</em> Heaven, my wings should be broken in kind!  At least then I could atone for <em>one</em> of the crimes I have committed.  How can I atone for my sins <em>now</em>, Dean?  <em>How</em>?!”</p><p>His grace pulsed in his agitation and his bonds crushed back.  He grunted, as if he’d just taken a blow to the sternum, but ploughed on.</p><p>Dean had given him an order, after all. </p><p>“I do not deserve the joy my wings bring me.  I am a failure, a liar, and a murderer.  A <em>traitor</em>.  I deserve <em>nothing</em>.  Even death would be a mercy, Dean, why –” he bowed his head, unable to hold Dean’s gaze anymore as despair and confusion crawled up his throat.  “<em>Why</em>?  Why would He <em>do</em> this to me?  Why would He take away the one punishment I needed most?”  He shame heating his cheeks, his voice ringing hollow in his ears. </p><p>“What else can I do but praise Him and His mercy?  Forever.  For the rest of eternity.  For however long it takes for my Father to either kill me or give me orders on how I can <em>properly</em> atone for my sins.  <em>What else can I do, Dean</em>?”</p><p>Dean seemed beyond words.  Woodenly, he pried his hands from Castiel’s wrists.  The corners of his mouth were pulled down and his green eyes stared into Castiel’s.  Several times he opened his mouth but said nothing and the two of them sat in silence as the bonds around Castiel grew tighter.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>Translation and pronunciation for Castiel's Prayer: (used from <a href="https://www.scribd.com/doc/114095778/Lords-Prayer-Enochian">this website</a>)</p><p><strong>Our Father               </strong>Who<strong>         Art         </strong>In<strong>           Heaven</strong></p><p><strong>Gee-ay Ee-ah-day</strong>   dee-ess   <strong>gay-ha</strong>   sah-ah   <strong>mah-dree-ih-axay</strong></p><p><strong>Great</strong>                     Is    <strong>Your</strong>                     Name</p><p><strong>Dree-lah-pah-ah</strong>  ih    <strong>en-ohn-caheh</strong>    doh-oh-ah-ee-nay</p><p><strong>Great</strong>                     Is    <strong>Your</strong>                     Mercy</p><p><strong>Dree-lah-pah-ah</strong>  ih    <strong>en-ohn-caheh</strong>    ee-eh-hay-uu-soo-zod</p><p> </p><p>LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! &lt;3</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks to everyone who left a comment! You guys are the driving force behind updates! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean had helped him to his bed; he had wordlessly watched as Castiel curled his right wing around his shoulder and laid down on top of it, then folded his left over himself to create a soft, warm, comforting cocoon.</p><p>He wanted to block out Dean, Sam, the bunker…everything.  For a while, he wanted to refuse to acknowledge anything but the darkness and warmth and weight of being inside his wings again.</p><p>It was a great comfort.  One he never thought he’d have again and one he did not deserve now.  But it was now, more than ever, that he needed it.</p><p>Dean had forbidden him from praying any more, the binding around his grace was sharp and tight, and the black maw of despair in his chest was growing bigger and bigger.</p><p>He longed for unconsciousness and shamelessly asked Dean to give it to him.</p><p>Outside the protective barrier of his wings – <em>coward</em> – Castiel could <em>feel</em> the hesitation in Dean’s silence.</p><p>Eventually, there came the sound of the small glass vial clinking against the syringe, the silence as the drug was pulled into the needle, and then the heavy presence of Dean standing just outside his wings.</p><p>Castiel pulled his wing back just enough to stare up at Dean and produce his arm.  When the darkness began to crowd around the edges of his vision, Castiel wondered if Dean had given him too much. </p><p>It didn’t matter. </p><p>He let his wing fall.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“So? how did it go?”</p><p>Dean silently grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels from its spot beside the toaster and turned to the kitchen table, plunking it down in the middle before taking a seat across from his brother.</p><p>Sam winced, “That bad?”</p><p>Dean swallowed, wondering how in the ever-loving-<em>fuck</em> he was supposed to find the words to describe what had just happened in Cas’ bedroom.</p><p>Vividly, blue and black and white feathers, the colors had been hard to distinguish in the dark room, were still filling his brain as fully as Cas’ wings had seemed to fill the room.</p><p>“We’re out of etorphine,” he decided to start with.  He needed to paint an accurate picture here.  He wasn’t going to be able to do this alone.  Sam needed to know everything.  This was a wound unlike any they had tried to stitch before. </p><p>With a solemn nod and a tightening around his already troubled eyes, Sam said, “I’ll go back to the zoo.  Get some more.”</p><p>“She’s gonna start asking questions,” Dean muttered.  The zoo vet owed them her life, and as such had been eager to supply them with the medication they used to sedate the elephants, but this was the third vial of the sedative they’d be asking her for.</p><p>“I’ll handle it,” Sam promised.  “Tell me what happened with Cas.”</p><p>Dean cleared his throat, looking down at his hands and digging desperately for the words he needed.  “He’s…it’s…”</p><p>Grunting in frustration at his own inability to just <em>say</em> stuff, he uncapped the bottle, took three long pulls, and ignored Sam’s increasingly alarmed gaze as he tried to forget the image of plunging a syringe between the track marks on an angel’s arm.</p><p>“Just give it to me straight, Dean.  What does he need?  What do we need to do?”</p><p>Dean pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, waiting for the alcohol to loosen his tongue.  “I don’t know, Sammy.”</p><p>Across the table, Sam let out a breath.  Dean only called him Sammy when things were really, <em>really</em>, bad. </p><p>“He’s messed up.  Bad,” he continued.  He stared at the table, remembering the way Castiel’s blue eyes had glowed in the darkness of his bedroom.  Remembering how he shook incessantly, how he fought Dean’s hold like it burned, how he’d only talked because Dean had ordered him to.</p><p>He swallowed again when the alcohol tried to burn its way back up.</p><p>He made sure it stayed down by piling a few more swigs on top of it.  Then he started talking.  If he was going to order Cas to talk then he was going to order himself to talk too.</p><p>So, he told Sam all that had happened after he had shoved his brother out of Cas’ bedroom.  He told Sam how Cas had prayed until he’d passed out – did <em>not</em> tell him about the wing-petting and the singing – how he’d woken up and kept right on praying.  Told him how Cas had stared at him with eerie, glowing eyes, how he had refused to speak until Dean ordered it.  Told him what Cas said about how he deserved nothing, how he felt about being shown mercy when he should be punished.  How the angel didn’t know what else to do but praise his Father and praise His mercy and just…wait.</p><p>“This is some biblical shit, Sam.  I don’t know how we’re gonna help him.  He’s…he’s devastated by the fact that he feels happy about getting his wings back…how fucked up is that?  He’s terrified that he won’t be able to atone for his sins now because he’s been ‘restored’, or whatever.  He feels <em>guilty</em> because he’s not suffering as much as he thinks he should!”  Dean spread his arms incredulously, “How the fuck are we supposed to tackle this, Sam?!  How are we supposed to singlehandedly reverse billions of years of angelic brainwashing and military conditioning and whatever the fuck else?!  And that’s on top of whatever Chuck programmed into their brains that can’t be changed <em>at all</em> –”</p><p>“Dean, <em>breathe</em>!”</p><p>He <em>was</em> breathing, fuck-you-very-much.  Maybe a little too fast, maybe a little too deep, but he was doing it.</p><p>Sam was suddenly next to him, hauling Dean’s chair away from the table – with him still in it – like he weighed nothing.  Ignoring his squawk of protest, Sam grabbed his shoulder and shoved, forcing Dean to fold over his knees while he gasped for air.</p><p>“Ok, maybe leaving <em>you</em> in there to deal with that wasn’t such a good idea,” Sam admitted.</p><p>“<em>You think?!</em>”  Dean snarled at the floor, trying to catch his breath.</p><p>He couldn’t do this.  It was too huge and he was too emotionally challenged. </p><p>“Alright just…just take deep breaths, Dean.  We can help Cas, we just need to break it down into more manageable steps.”</p><p>Dean wondered who Sam was trying to convince with that tone.</p><p>He wanted to punch something.  Really <em>fucking</em> hard.</p><p>Once Dean had calmed down and gotten his breathing under control, Sam retook his seat across the table with a pensive frown.  He wondered how his brother could look so…so <em>not</em> overwhelmed by everything that was happening in the bedroom down the hall.</p><p>They had an Angel of the Lord trapped in there like an injured bird in a shoebox.  A very powerful, very unstable, injured bird.  He’d known angels were messed up…but Dean didn’t think it had really sunk in until now.</p><p>God had made these creatures to be blindly obedient, fiercely loyal, and incapable of autonomous thought.  To the point where, apparently, their brains just…broke if something happened and one of those three things was changed.</p><p>Somehow, they had to get Cas to believe he didn’t deserve eternal suffering, that being happy was ok, and that God was actually kind of a monster that should not be thanked for much of anything. </p><p>Dean felt very much like the task before them was going to be like trying to teach a fish how to breathe air.</p><p>Sam had pulled a notepad from somewhere – he had them stashed everywhere – which meant he was ready to get down to serious business and Dean felt his nerves settle a little.  Sam was good at this stuff, he was smart, he was much more in tune with his emotions than Dean, and if anyone could plot them a way out of this kind of trouble it was Sam.</p><p>For now, Dean just did as he was told, and kept breathing.</p><hr/><p>
  <strong> <em>Two nights later</em> </strong>
</p><hr/><p>The room was dark and choked with tension, a current of energy vibrating between the three occupants.</p><p>“I had to relieve more pressure,”  Castiel explained, trying to subdue the irrational fear prickling along his spine and forcing his attention from the angel blade in Dean’s hand and up to his eyes.  “I couldn’t take it anymore, Dean.  I’m sorry and I understand if…if you can’t trust me. I’ll leave…just, please tell me what spell you used so I can –”</p><p>“Leave – just, you’re not going <em>anywhere</em>, Cas, I – you’re – god <em>dammit</em>!”</p><p>Sam was standing by the door to Castiel’s bedroom, leaning into the wall like it was the only thing holding him up. But his brown eyes were sharp and focused…on Castiel.  He stared, following every movement Castiel made.  But when Dean snapped, apparently having reached his emotional limit for the morning, Sam pushed away from the wall, intending to intervene, by the looks of it.</p><p>The brothers were in their pyjamas, hair messy and faces creased.  Castiel had tired hard not to wake them, but he couldn’t hold back the groans of pain this time, and apparently Dean was a very light sleeper when he wanted to be.</p><p>“<em>Tell me</em> what you were doing, Cas,” Dean snapped.</p><p>Castiel grit his teeth, eyeing the blade in Dean’s hand.  Why was he still holding it anyway?  It was <em>Castiel’s</em> blade.  It was part of <em>him</em>.  It did not belong in someone else’s hand.</p><p>He’d just opened his mouth, compelled to answer, when Sam spoke up first, “Dean, remember what we talked about.”</p><p>Dean deflated like a popped balloon and met Castiel’s eye with great effort.</p><p>“<em>I’m sorry</em>,” he ground out, “I’m just <em>upset</em>,” here his eyes flicked over to glare at his brother before snapping back to Castiel, “that I walked in on you carving yourself up like an Easter ham!”</p><p>As he spoke, Dean gesticulated, the angel blade flashing in his hand, and Castiel could not contain a flinch when it caught the light from the hallway, flashing like a spark of angry grace.</p><p>“Dean, put the blade down!” Sam snapped, too loud.</p><p>Castiel’s chest burned where the sigil was half carved into his chest.</p><p>The elder hunter looked down at the blade in his hand like he’d forgotten it was there; when he looked up at Castiel, something in his face shifted and then crumpled, and he tossed the blade on the bed like it had burned him.</p><p>Castiel stared at it.  His wing twitched.  His fingers curled.</p><p>“Take it, Cas,” Dean nearly whispered.  He looked like he was in pain.  Again.  Like he had a bullet hole in him somewhere that he didn’t want anyone to know about.</p><p>Castiel didn’t need to be told twice.  He took a step forward and grabbed his blade – the tip was still red with his blood – hugging it to his chest.  He could breathe again, though he wondered for how long.  After a moment of it’s comforting weight against his bare skin, Castiel let it dissolve back in to his vessel’s right forearm, where it would wait until he summoned it again.</p><p>His grace calmed.  The bonds chaffed and stung.  He swayed where he stood.</p><p>It was Sam that spoke next, soft but firm.  “Castiel, can you tell us what you were trying to do before Dean stopped you?”</p><p>Hearing his full name from Sam’s mouth was…odd, Castiel decided.  Sam and Dean were really the only two beings in the universe that called him ‘Cas’.  But he supposed Sam <em>had</em> called him Castiel a few times, when they had first met.  He wondered why he was suddenly doing it again.</p><p>He decided to shake it off for now. It wasn’t important. </p><p>He focused on the question Sam asked him, grateful that it wasn’t an order.  “I…I woke up.  It was dark and I…couldn’t remember what had happened and…I was in pain. Again.  I thought having my wings here with me would have helped relieve the pressure for a while longer but…when I woke up just now it felt like I was being crushed again.  I don’t know how to explain the feeling, but I needed to relieve the pressure and the only way I could think of doing that now was to...” he motioned vaguely to the half-finished sigil cut in to his chest.</p><p>“What does it do?” Sam asked.</p><p>Castiel swallowed.  “It will smother my grace…so that there is nothing for the binding to crush.”  He didn’t tell them it would need to be re-cut every day.  The lines needed to be clean and continuous.  Scabs and new skin would break those lines and render the sigil useless.</p><p>He wondered if the spell could hear him, because just then it constricted hard enough to make him gag and he stumbled backwards, wings flaring as his back hit the wall and he slid to the floor.</p><p>They really needed to discuss just where this spell had been found.  Castiel was almost convinced it was sentient.  He clutched at his chest, fingernails catching on open skin and slipping in blood, and the binding tightened.</p><p>He slammed his head back against the wall and cursed, wishing he could sink his claws into those magical ropes and shred them.  He was angry – enraged – but there was nothing to kill.  Nothing to fight.</p><p>The brothers were both crouching in front of him, talking, asking if he was ok, asking what was happening.</p><p>“What do you think is happening?!” he barked.  They were trying to pull his hands out of the mess on his chest but he placed the large joint of each wing on their chests and shoved them away hard enough to put them on their asses.  “You <em>bound</em> me!  Do you even know what that means? Did you bother to understand that spell before you used it?”</p><p><em>Of course they hadn’t</em>, Castiel’s mind hissed, <em>they’d only looked it up in case they needed to leash you while you were Rowena’s dog.  You were and are just an animal to them.  They’re hunters, be grateful they haven’t put you down.  </em></p><p>He braced his bloody hands against the floor as the wave of pain ebbed.  He didn’t want to look at them; didn’t want to see the pain in their eyes – or the fear. </p><p>
  <em>You’re scaring me, Cas.</em>
</p><p>He couldn’t keep going like this.  He couldn’t wait for them to find the release for this spell while he sat in this room and slowly lost his mind.  He was a soldier – an <em>angel</em>.  Angels do not lay down and die.  He would not let these two humans and their caveman binding spell take him down.  A good soldier was <em>never</em> out of options.</p><p>He manifested his blade in his hand.</p><p>“Cas,” Dean froze in an aborted reach, his and Sam’s eyes both wide.</p><p>Castiel brought the point of the blade to where he’d left off with the sigil.  When the brothers both reached for him, he looked over, met their gaze and calmly continued carving the sigil into his skin.  This one was intricate, and he had all his other eyes on it to make sure it was perfect.</p><p>As predicted, the two humans froze, reasonably disturbed by the sight.</p><p>I took less than a few seconds for him to complete the sigil and link the first line to the last.  Castiel felt his grace pulse and then fade like he was turning down the dial on a gas stove.</p><p>He finally let a breath stutter from his chest.</p><p>His grace was there, but it was dormant.  <em>Almost</em> as if it wasn’t there at all.  He refused to panic about it.  He knew what the sigil was for, knew exactly what it was doing, and knew the second he dragged his blade through it and broke the lines that his grace would come to life once more.</p><p>For now, this was the only way he was going to be able to function until they found a way to undo the binding Dean had put on him.</p><p>After he had taken a moment to calm himself back down – the heart-stopping <em>terror</em> of barely being able to feel his grace was awful even though he’d done it on purpose – Castiel sheathed his blade.</p><p>Brief, but terribly real, memories of reaching for his grace after Metatron had cut him open and taken it flashed through his mind.  He brought his hand to his throat, needing to confirm there was no gaping wound through which his grace had been stolen.</p><p>His heart threw itself against his ribs.</p><p>Finally, with no reason not to, Castiel looked over at the brothers who had stayed firmly on the floor.  They were silent and looked sad and…thoroughly overwhelmed.  But it was Dean that looked like he might need to vomit.</p><p>Castiel nearly sighed, unable to fully relish the absence of his bindings.  They were still there of course, but with his grace so dimmed, there was nothing for the spell to do.</p><p>He was, once again, exhausted, and Castiel closed his eyes, unwilling to stare across the vast canyon that seemed to be growing between him and the brothers.  He’d never felt so starkly aware of the differences that separated their species.</p><p>He felt better and worse than he had in days.</p><p>How could they possibly recover from this?</p><hr/><p>
  
</p><hr/><p>Dean drained the neck of his beer in less than a second, feeling the <em>thump thump thump</em> of bass music vibrating in his chest.</p><p>He was sitting in one of those places in Lebanon that you drive by but never actually stop and go in to.  But he’d needed to get away.  Desperately.  He needed to get out of that bunker and do something that involved other, more <em>normal</em> humans.</p><p>The place wasn’t a dive, per-se, but he certainly would not be bringing his mother here to showcase the world’s last thirty or so years of dining advancements. </p><p>Dean gulped down another few mouthfuls of…whatever the waitress had brought him.  She was in her twenties and he’d told her to surprise him. </p><p>He looked at the label.  Some hipster craft beer with a crudely hand-drawn image for a label.  Not surprising.</p><p>Whatever, it had alcohol in it and that was really all he was after.</p><p>He let his thoughts stray back to his mother.  Another complication in his life at the moment.  As if he didn’t have enough of those already.  He’d spoken to her only a handful of times.  Though to be fair she seemed to be doing her best to avoid them.  At least, that’s what it felt like to Dean.  He’d never really thought of what life might be like if his mother suddenly returned from the grave when he was pushing forty because…well why would he?  But he had to imagine that if he had, he’d have assumed he’d speak to his mother more than a few times in a week.  Especially since they were living in the same house.  It was a pretty massive house…but still.</p><p>He also would probably have assumed that those few conversations wouldn’t have been as forced and stilted as they were but…well, here he was.</p><p>Granted, she likely needed some space.  The last time she had been a part of the world, cellphones hadn’t even existed.</p><p>When Dean finished off his beer, the waitress brought him another, very similar looking, but different bottle.  It tasted the same.</p><p>Sam seemed to be getting along with Mary well enough and Dean wondered if that was perhaps because he had no memories of her and so, had no expectations.  They spoke more frequently then she and Dean did but the conversations were short and shallow.  They touched on nothing of importance.  Nothing of the past or of memories or of their father.</p><p>She had expressed interest in leaving the bunker, but both Sam and Dean had talked her out of it.  For now.  But once a hunter, always a hunter, and the woman had begun pouring over newspapers like she couldn’t wait to get back out into the world and get herself killed.</p><p>Dean didn’t know what to do about the situation or the emotions it inflicted upon him.  He <em>did</em> know that he could go to therapy for the rest of his life and never sort through all the crap that was swirling around in his head these days.</p><p>He wondered if maybe Naomi hadn’t been on to something after all.  A lobotomy might not be such a bad idea if it meant he could forget the last few years of his life.</p><p>Dean bit down on his tongue hard as a punishment for even thinking such a thing.  Even if Cas wasn’t around to hear it, Dean should not be trivializing one of many horrific things the angel had been put through.</p><p>He sighed.</p><p>A blond girl that was way too young to be in a bar caught his eye and winked.  He rolled his eyes before he could stop himself and received a glittery glower in response.</p><p>He wondered how Cas was doing, feeling guilty that the angel was mostly the reason he was at the bar in the first place.  His hand clenched around the neck of the nearly empty bottle.</p><p>Over the last few days there had been some serious self reflection going on inside the bunker.  It had taken his best friend throwing himself to the ground and praying to a god that was no longer listening until he passed out from exhaustion, but finally Dean had realised that something about their lives and how they moved through it needed to change.</p><p>And it needed to change right fucking now.</p><p>Sam, who had probably realised the same thing ages ago, seemed to already have the information on how to get started ready to go on his laptop.  He inundated Dean’s inbox with article after article on trauma, PTSD, self-care, journaling, mental health awareness, and a load of other crap that Dean hadn’t even known was something people talked about, much less studied.</p><p>They’d both read the same publications, taken the same quizzes, done the same homework, and come to the same conclusion.</p><p>They were royally fucked up.</p><p>Another beer was plunked down in front of him and he vowed to nurse this one a little better.  He had to drive home, after all.</p><p>It had started with talking – if you could call it that – about John Winchester and had ended with them storming away from each other and slamming their bedroom doors.</p><p>The day after that started with grumbled but sincere apologies and breakfast beer while they picked up the conversation again.  That time it had ended with carefully hidden tears.</p><p>The day after <em>that</em> had started ugly – well, the past was ugly, so it made sense – and hadn’t ended much better.</p><p>Through it all, Mary was absent.  Neither he nor Sam went looking for her in the bunker.  She’d made it clear she needed space to adjust and they had their own shit to work through.  As much as it pained him to think it, having their mother around while trying to work through their shit probably would have made things much less productive. </p><p>It was hard to talk about how abusive and neglectful your dad was and how it had affected you when your mom was listening.  Dean wouldn’t have been able to say what he was actually thinking or feeling if she had been there.</p><p>Despite the arguments and the opening of old wounds and the fact that he felt like he had flayed himself bare in front of Sam…Dean felt better.  Lighter than he would have thought possible.  Though he supposed that after spilling your guts like they had been for the last few days, you were bound to feel a bit lighter. </p><p>It felt as if they had broken a bone that hadn’t set properly and now it was finally healing right.</p><p>He felt like they might be starting on a path that may lead somewhere…decent? Stable? Good? </p><p>Something like that.</p><p>He only hoped they could lead Cas down that path with them, if only they could figure out <em>how</em>.</p><p>He paid without finishing his last beer and slid behind the wheel of the Impala.</p><p>Yesterday, day four since they had started <em>talking</em>, had consisted of taking a sledge hammer to a whole different can of worms.  Yesterday, Dean had had to face the fact that some of the blame for Cas’ self-hatred was squarely on his shoulders.</p><p>Yesterday, Dean had had to say, out loud, that when it came to Cas, he’d been less of a friend and more of a slave driver.</p><p>He hated it.  He hated himself.  He hated that their lives just couldn’t be simple and easy for once.</p><p>Things had to change.  <em>He</em> had to change.  More honest, Sam told him, no matter how much it hurt.  No matter how awkward or uncomfortable it felt.  No covering up hurt feelings with harsh words.  No hiding behind alcohol and bad humor.</p><p>And most importantly, and certainly most difficult, they had to stop talking to each other only when they had something bad to say.</p><p>Dean tried to remember a time he had told Sam he was proud of him.  Tried to remember a time he had praised Cas for something good he had done.  He tried to remember if he had ever said something positive to anyone at all just because it was nice to say nice things to people sometimes. </p><p>He came up blank. </p><p>Most of the time, when he spoke to either Sam or Cas, it was to discuss the terrible thing they were knee deep in and find a way out of it.  Or it was to yell at them for doing something stupid like risking their lives or not listening to him.  Often it was to assign blame.</p><p>Worst of all, Dean thought, was the times when none of them said anything at all.  They just sat and let their mental wounds fester and rot.  And the more Dean forced himself to think about it, the more he realized that Team Free Will’s silences had begun to outweigh their voices.</p><p>The highway disappeared under the Impala’s tires, and Dean cast the occasional glance towards the stars.  Out here, the light pollution couldn’t reach them, and they glittered down at him; sharp and accusing.</p><p>He’d played a part in nearly killing one of those stars.  He’d ripped an angel from the sky and hadn’t even had the decency to just stab it like most of the things he killed.  No, he’d picked Castiel apart slowly, with words, with silences and with actions, all of which the angel did not – could not – understand. </p><p>Angels don’t <em>hear</em> subtle, don’t know <em>how</em> to fill in the blanks.  They don’t <em>see</em> body language. And they don’t understand metaphors or euphemism.  You could no more communicate with an angel by using body language and metaphors than you could communicate to a blind person by using sign language. </p><p>And Dean had known that all along.  Still he’d chosen to leave Castiel confused and guessing at what was expected of him.  He was left to try and figure out why Dean was yelling at him, cursing him, asking him to stay and telling him to go – often in the same sentence.  Among other things.  Dean had been cruel.  Castiel had tried so hard to talk, to ask questions, to figure out what Dean wanted from him.</p><p>Not anymore, Dean thought bitterly.  Cas rarely spoke these days unless he was asked a direct question.  He’d learned that staying quiet was safer when it came to the Winchesters.</p><p>His worst transgression against Cas, as far as he was concerned, was telling the angel he was part of their family and then doing and saying things to the angel that he would never, ever, do to Sam.</p><p>It didn’t need to be that way, Sam had pointed out to him, with some trouble of his own.  And the fact that his much more emotionally mature little brother seemed to be struggling with these new concepts as well made Dean feel a little better.</p><p>Talking was <em>hard</em>…but it was better than where <em>not</em> talking had gotten them.</p><p>The access road to the bunker was long, dark, and littered with potholes and Dean eased the Impala down it at a crawl, vowing – as he always did – to get some gravel and fill them in sometime soon.</p><p>Dean and Sam both had a list of things they needed to work on.  They had kept it short, as the kind of changes they were trying to make were difficult.  Dean repeated them like a mantra in his head whenever he thought of them, just to make sure they would stick.</p><p>Number one?  Be kind.  So simple, in theory, when your whole life didn’t revolve around protecting yourself and those you love from evil.  Dean had laughed when Sam had made that the first thing on their list.  But he hadn’t been laughing when literally an hour later he was biting his tongue to keep from snapping something nasty at Cas as the angel struggled to stay standing, his wings quivering behind him with exhaustion.</p><p>Number two: Be kind to <em>themselves</em>.  They were to try <em>not</em> to let their ‘inner critics’ – seriously where had Sam come up with these terms anyway – have too much control.</p><p>Number three: keep their minds open to the needs of others.</p><p>Mainly, at the moment, that meant Cas and their mother.  But mostly Cas.  Mary had seemed to adjust shockingly well to being alive.  But she was human, talking to her and predicting what she might need from them was much easier and more natural than with Cas.</p><p>Besides which, on the rare occasion Dean did outright ask Cas what he needed he was met with either stony silence or confusion.  As if he couldn't understand why anyone would care what he needed or why it would even matter.</p><p>Seeing that confusion on the angel's face hurt in a way Dean couldn't explain with words.</p><p>Dean pulled the car in to the garage and sat there for a while after he killed the engine.</p><p>Of course, Castiel was an angel, but if Dean wanted to prove to him that he was just as much a part of this little family as him and Sam were then Dean was going to have to consider things he had never wanted to bother with before.</p><p>It was one thing to just <em>say</em> Cas was family, it was another thing entirely to prove it to him. </p><p>He tried to remind himself as often as possible now that Cas wasn’t just Cas.  He was Castiel, and he had <em>been</em> Castiel for millions upon millions of years before Dean had become part of his life.  He was the size of the Chrysler building.  He had wings and thousands of eyes and he thought differently than humans did.  It was easy to forget that, when he walked around in a human body and talked like a human and dressed like a human.</p><p>But now, more than ever, it was clear that he was <em>not</em> human.  Even though he’d gotten better at pretending, Dean was starting to think that maybe it was more important that he <em>stop</em> pretending.  After all, Cas would never expect <em>them</em> to sprout wings and start speaking to him in Enochian, why had Dean expected Castiel to hide his wings and learn how to wear a tie properly? </p><p>A tie.  On a creature the size of the Chrysler building.</p><p>Dean wondered how he might feel if a flea yelled at him for the way one of his eyebrow hairs was sitting.</p><p>Confused, mostly.  Which explained a lot about most of Cas’ very limited range of facial expressions.</p><p>With a sigh and an ache in his bones that didn’t belong in a forty year old, Dean heaved himself from the car and made for the door that lead in to the bunker.</p><p>He did a double take when he noticed the truck nearest to the garage door was gone.  It was the one Sam favoured, but his heart skipped a beat.</p><p>Had Mary left or had Sam?</p><p>He rushed inside.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ellabrennanbutler/">Art by Ella Brennan</a>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lemme know what you think!  I wanted to add more picture but couldn't find any I liked...I wish I know how to use photoshop so I could make my own edits...ugh.  I've become obsessed with adding pictures to my fics lately.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next time Castiel woke it was, thankfully, gentler than the last.  But after a moment, he felt a tingling up his spine and both his marginal and secondary coverts rose to attention.</p><p>His grace pulsed, angry in the confines of the binding.  The sigil must have scabbed over. </p><p>Redrawing it would have to wait.  Someone was in the room with him.  Someone he was quite sure was neither Sam nor Dean.  Castiel knew the feel of their presence by now, even without access to his grace. </p><p>Pushing the pain aside as best he could – he was good at that – Castiel snapped his wings out and up in a threatening display, rolling to his feet. </p><p>He was ready – might almost say he was <em>eager</em> – for a fight.</p><p>Mary Winchester flinched in her chair, but the gun she aimed at his chest was steady.</p><p>Castiel felt like he’d been punched in the gut. </p><p>Mary. </p><p>He’d <em>forgotten</em> about Mary.</p><p>“Don’t move,” she ordered, her voice steady.</p><p>Still reeling from the fact that he’d forgotten something as cosmic as Sam and Dean’s mother returning from the grave, Castiel merely tilted his head to the side, thoroughly blindsided, his wings still spread and frozen on either side of him.</p><p>“Why…are you pointing a gun at me?” he asked, as if it were important.  As if the answer mattered or impacted him at all.  “Where are Sam and Dean?” Ah.  That was better.</p><p>“Out.  And <em>they</em> might trust you but <em>I</em> don’t.”</p><p>Her words didn’t seem to hold any maliciousness, she was merely stating a fact, but the steely look in her eye made Castiel draw his wings back in, folding them close to his body.  There was a jarring familiarity in the look in her eye; in the way she was pointing that gun at him.</p><p>“You’re a hunter,” he recalled.  Dean looked at the monsters he hunted with those exact same eyes, in that exact same way. </p><p>Like there was a stain at the end of their gun that they were itching to blast off the face of the earth.</p><p>“Yes, and I normally do more than just <em>point</em> a gun at things like you.”</p><p>Her words cut deeper than he could have predicted.  He wasn’t sure why.  Perhaps it was because this was just another sign of Castiel’s impermanence in Dean and Sam’s lives.  Certainly, if their mother did not approve of her sons having an angel around then he would soon be asked to leave. </p><p>Again.</p><p>Though he supposed that was for the best.  He’d very nearly killed all three of them, he should not wait until he is <em>asked</em> to leave.  He should not force them into the position of <em>having</em> to ask.  He should just go.</p><p>But even as he thought this, his grace roiled, the binding squeezed, and he doubled over with a grunt.</p><p>He could barely walk on his own, let alone anything else.</p><p>“That gun won’t kill me,” he panted, pressing a hand to his chest, willing his grace to settle.  He considered taking his blade out right then and there to redraw the sigil but decided Mary had probably been traumatized enough for one lifetime.</p><p>“It’ll slow you down.”</p><p>Castiel leveled a glare at the woman, feeling none of the warmth he would have expected to feel towards Dean’s sire.</p><p>“Are you concerned I might need slowing down?” he drawled, scrunching his eyes shut around another twist of pain.  He spat an Enochian curse word but it did little to dull the needle-like stabs spiking within his chest.</p><p>He gave in and lowered himself to his knees, placing his hands on his thighs and letting his wings relax as he took deep breaths. The pain did not recede and anger flared behind his ribs.</p><p>If he asked nicely, he wondered if Mary might take his blade and kill him.</p><p>He doubted it.</p><p>“Where is that medicine Dean was giving me?” He rubbed at the inside of his elbow, glancing around the room through narrowed eyes, as if the pain inside him where the glare of the sun.</p><p>“You used it all.  Sam went to get more.”</p><p>Castiel closed his eyes again and bowed his head.  He was alone with his pain for now then.  Fine, he’d simply re-carve the sigil and Mary could deal with witnessing it.</p><p>“I need my blade,” he warned her with only half the sentence he’d planned to, but another squeeze from the binding cut him short. </p><p>“Are you kidding?  I’m not giving you your knife.”</p><p>“I wasn’t asking,” Castiel growled, a wave of rage riding a wave of pain.  He did not have the patience to give her the Be Not Afraid spiel.  The constant pain was making him <em>somewhat</em> irritable.  As Dean would say, <em>so sue him</em>. “It is the only thing that will <em>cut</em> me sufficiently deep for a sigil to work properly, if you are unable to watch, then turn your back.”</p><p>She swallowed, readjusting her shot gun as if the mere idea of turning her back on him was suicide.  “Your eyes are glowing.  What does that mean?”</p><p>“It means I am <em>very</em> tired and <em>very</em> annoyed.”  Castiel manifested his blade, both uncaring and unsurprised that he was showing through his vessel.  In the chaotic mess of the last few days?  Week?  He barely had control of himself, he did not have the mental space to be worried about what bits of his angelic body were and were not slipping through and scaring his human hosts.</p><p>If they hated seeing even the smallest glimpse of what he truly was then they could kick him out.  But, until then, Castiel could not afford the energy to care how they felt. </p><p>“Put the knife down!” she barked at him, getting to her feet and taking aim with the shotgun.</p><p>He lifted his head to glare at her, feeling his grace crackle, ready for a fight.</p><p>The binding crushed back.  He gasped and doubled over, but refused to drop his blade.  His hand shook with the strain of keeping hold of it and he <em>almost</em> let it slip through his fingers.</p><p>He glared down at his hand as if it had a mind of its own.</p><p>“Sam told me to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid while he was gone, so you <em>won’t</em> until they get back.”  She looked frightened, but no less stubborn than Dean had in that barn when he’d plunged that demon blade into Castiel’s chest.  She shifted the gun again, as if to get a better grip on it.  “<em>Lay down</em>.”</p><p>Castiel was mostly fueled by a burst of pure rage when he lunged forward faster than Mary’s human eyes could register.  A niggling pull to <em>actually</em> lie down as commanded struggled for attention in the back of his mind but, in his outrage, it was easy enough to ignore. </p><p>He grabbed the shot gun barrel just as she fired a round that clipped his shoulde, ripped it from her grasp and tossed it to the other side of the room.</p><p>He pressed in to her personal space, could smell the sharpness of her sudden spike of fear mingling with gun powder under his nose, and she scrambled away from him.  Her eyes were wide, and she was trying very hard not to let that fear show.</p><p>“That didn’t slow me down much,” he growled through his teeth.</p><p>Having made his point – he was still a god damn angel and no <em>human</em> with a <em>shotgun</em> was going to tell him to lay down like a dog, no matter whose mother they were – he turned away from Mary and started stumbling towards the war room.  A few rounds had made it into his shoulder and he hissed when he bumped in to the wall, jostling the wound. </p><p>But that was the least of his worries.</p><p>He needed space.  He couldn’t <em>breathe</em> inside these concrete walls.  The bunker had always felt cramped but now that his wings were free, it felt even smaller.  Angels didn’t belong in boxes and they certainly did not belong underground.</p><p>Mary, it seemed, had wisely chosen not to follow him. </p><p>He tried to feel bad for frightening her, but couldn’t quite manage it. </p><p>Once he had reached the far walls and high ceiling of the war room, Castiel gratefully spread his wings in a stretch and brought the blade over his heart to begin re-carving the sigil.</p><p>He grit his teeth, wondering why everything always had to <em>hurt</em> so much.  Why had his Father made he and his siblings with the ability to feel pain?  Surely they would have been much more effective soldiers if they couldn’t feel.  Though he had long ago stopped trying to figure out the reasoning behind his Father’s choices.</p><p>He cursed, tossing his head back to glare at the ceiling, wondering when his existence had become so ridiculous and complicated.  It used to be so <em>simple</em>.</p><p>Step one, get orders. </p><p>Step two, execute orders.</p><p>Step three, wait for more orders.</p><p>He wasn’t saying Free Will was a <em>bad</em> thing…but it certainly had its drawbacks.</p><p>The second he finished the last cut in his chest, connecting the first and last lines and completing the sigil, Castiel took a moment to consider his handy-work.  The cuts were deeper this time, and his true-form was shining brightly through them. </p><p>He winced.  Dean wouldn’t like that.  Dean didn’t like it when was injured enough for his grace to shine through.  Dean didn’t like it when Castiel wasn’t as human as possible.</p><p>He looked down at his hands, covered in blood, and then past them to the floor, also covered in blood, and wished he’d had the foresight to at least grab a towel. </p><p>Though he realised then that he didn’t even know where they were kept. </p><p>He supposed, in the grand scheme of things, a bit more blood on the floor wasn’t that big a deal.  Not when Castiel was standing with his wings spread, grace shining from the self-inflicted wound over his chest and through his eyes.  Blood seemed fairly tame in comparison.  The brothers likely wouldn’t even notice it.</p><p>He thanked the gods he hadn’t needed to manifest his halo.  It might have been the last straw for those poor boys.  He bitterly reminded himself that they seemed uncomfortable in his presence on a good day and that perhaps he should go back to his room where they wouldn’t have to look at him as much.  At least until he was strong enough to cram everything back inside his vessel.</p><p>A family of hunters was likely already incredibly uncomfortable with an unstable angel in their space when they still looked human; Castiel could not imagine the blend of human and monster they were seeing now.</p><p>Even if it did make <em>him</em> feel more comfortable to have his wings out, or have his halo to speak for him, or from time to time, leave his vessel behind entirely and just find an open field in which to <em>stretch</em>…well, it was the Winchesters that he wanted to make sure felt more comfortable.  He did not want them to start looking at him like he was something to be feared; something to be <em>hunted</em>.</p><p>The very thought of Dean looking at him like Mary just had made him want to vomit.</p><p>He glanced over at his left wing and then his right, wishing he had just put up with the pain instead of alienating himself even more.  It was already obvious to everyone he met that he wasn’t <em>normal</em> – wasn’t <em>human</em>.  Even strangers could tell.  They didn’t know what it was they were sensing; they just knew he was…wrong.</p><p>And besides, Dean reminded him often enough how different and weird he was.</p><p>Now he’d gone and made it that much more obvious.  Up until now his wings had always been a source of pride for him.  They were sleek and powerful, meant for diving and weaving and cutting down his enemies.  He kept them impeccably groomed.  Not a feather out of place, as was expected for a Seraph of his ranking.</p><p>Not that any of that mattered anymore.</p><p>Castiel’s wings in particular were, much like him, different.</p><p>The scars he’d gotten freeing Dean from hell were impressive; they were something even his most hated enemies begrudgingly gazed upon with respect and, sometimes, jealousy.</p><p>Before, when he was young, his wings had been a pure pristine white like all his brothers and sisters, when their grace was too young and too weak to leave it’s own mark.  As an angel grew and changed, so did their wings; changed, molded and painted by their grace so that no two angels had the exact same wings.</p><p>He stretched his left one out, looking closely at his feathers for the first time in a long time.  After all, not that long ago, his wings had been a ruined, skeletal mess.</p><p>He felt that pull deep inside him again, to fall to his knees and praise his Father, but it was faint enough to ignore at the moment.</p><p>The feathers along the leading edges, his marginal and primary coverts, had been charred black.  Hellfire, it seemed, burned so deep that even after a molt the new feathers came in blacker than ink.  But the scarring faded from black to navy a few inches down his secondary coverts.  Then faded further to the same kind of blue as deep ocean waters, lightening to a lighter blue halfway down his primaries and secondaries that reminded Castiel of the sky on clear autumn days.  Each of his secondaries had evenly spaced black bands that he rather thought tied in nicely with the black scarring on the leading edge.</p><p>The last half of his primaries and secondaries were white, as well as most of the feathers on the undersides of his wings.</p><p>He was, by angelic standards, still young.  Young enough that not all the white had been replaced yet.  In time, it would disappear.    </p><p>He stretched his wings farther and felt one corner of his mouth curl up.  The flecks of gold were still visible, flashing here and there amid his deep blue scapulars and tertials.  He’d always liked his gold spots, even if it was unusual. </p><p>Soon enough his smile dropped away and he folded his wings close to his back.  It was impossible to hide them now.  Though they contained a small amount of his grace, he could not shove them back across the etheric barrier without access to all of it.</p><p>Besides, it <em>felt</em> better to have them out.  His wings had been in another dimension so long that he’d forgotten how right it felt to have them here with him.  Connected to his body.  Or at leas the body he was inhabiting.  </p><p>He rolled his shoulder, feeling three tiny metal balls under his skin.  No sense in cleaning the blood off his hands and floor now when he was only going to make a bigger mess in a moment.</p><p>Now that his grace was dormant, he was going to need to heal the human way and let his vessel do all the work.</p><p>He sighed.</p><p>At least he had some of his energy back now that he was not in a constant state of being suffocated by his cruel bindings.  Not for the first time, he wondered what <em>barbaric</em> <em>neanderthal</em> had even come up with such a crude spell before he realized it didn’t matter.  Whoever had made it had obviously been going for efficiency over quality.</p><p>He reached under the table and pulled up one of the three first aid kits Velcro-ed to the underside of it.</p><p>He’d just dug two of the three tiny balls out with tweezers, scowling when he noticed a few droplets of blood smeared on his feathers, the blue underneath making it look purple, when Sam and Dean returned.  From two different doors.  At the same time. </p><p>He frowned as Sam’s calm expression scrunched into one of concern as soon as he spotted Castiel standing at the massive table, bleeding from more places than what he was probably expecting.</p><p>Sam barrelled down the stairs and towards him with such urgency that Castiel felt himself taking a step back, the tweezers still held delicately just under his skin.</p><p>At the same time, Dean was charging in from the direction of the garage, an <em>intensely</em> unhappy look on his face.</p><p>Castiel eyed the droplets of blood leading down the hallway from which Dean had come, leading the hunter straight to him like a morbid trail of breadcrumbs. </p><p>He was always leaving a bloody mess in his wake.</p><p>He wondered where Mary had gone – hoping to whatever gods might still be listening that he wasn’t the one who ended up scaring her out of the bunker.  Dean would never forgive him. </p><p>As both men reached him at nearly the same time, Castiel took a deep breath, bracing himself.</p><p>“Cas?!” Dean cried, both of them were looking around the war room like they expected to see the enemies responsible for Castiel’s injured shoulder.</p><p>Castiel grit his teeth and pushed the tweezers further under his skin, using it as an excuse to not have to look either brother in the eye.</p><p>“What the hell happened to you?!” Dean threw a plastic bag of whatever he’d gotten while he was out onto the table and came to a halt next to Cas.</p><p>“Your mother shot me.”</p><p>Dead silence followed. </p><p>Finally, the tweezers gripped the last bit of metal in his shoulder and he ripped it out with a hiss.  He let the familiar pain of a flesh wound ground him. </p><p>“She <em>shot</em> you?”</p><p>The tweezers clattered into the small metal tray, blood smeared over the ends of them.</p><p>The tone in Dean’s voice made Castiel glance up, unsurprised to see both confusion and disbelief written across his face.  Sam’s eyes dropped away to the floor, but he did not seem to share the same disbelief that his brother did. </p><p>Surreptitiously, Sam looked over at Dean as if gauging his reaction.</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel explained, calmly picking up the seuture needle and thread.  “To be fair, she did warn me that she normally does more than just <em>point</em> a gun at things like me.  I should have seen it coming.”</p><p>If he had, he could have avoided this entire uncomfortable encounter.  If he hadn’t been in the state he was, she never would have had time to even squeeze the trigger.</p><p>His shoulders slumped.</p><p>Dean’s mouth dropped open a fraction before he caught it and his green eyes darted over Castiel’s shoulder.  To his wings.</p><p>Even though he tried not to, Castiel self-consciously folded them tighter while trying to shove a bit of thread through the loop of the needle.</p><p>But Dean’s hand suddenly covered his own and Castiel stared up at him.</p><p>“Let me,” the hunter said quietly, taking the needle from him, not even reacting when a bit of Castiel’s blood smeared on his fingertips.</p><p>“I’ll go find her,” Sam muttered, escaping the room as well as the uncomfortable atmosphere.</p><p>Castiel said nothing while Dean stitched his wounds closed.  Dean said nothing about his wings or the freshly carved sigil in his chest; nor did he ask what had led to him getting shot by his mother.  His green eyes swam with too many things for Castiel to name.  It felt as if there was so much both of them needed to say that the very thought of starting was too much at the moment.</p><p>And so they sat in silence.</p><p>“Sam got you some more painkillers,” Dean told him after a while.</p><p>“I hope I won’t need them anymore.  The sigil…will help.”</p><p>There was so much he wanted to say and just had no energy with which to say it.  Besides which, Dean would not listen anyway.  Dean did not like to talk, not about anything important.  Not about anything that mattered.</p><p>Castiel told himself that, even if he did talk, Dean likely would not care about what he wanted to say.  The man had a lot on his plate right now and probably wanted to spend some time with his mother.  Instead, he’d been forced to take care of Castiel since the moment they all got home.</p><p>When he felt the hunter start dabbing tenderly at the drying blood on his shoulder with an alcohol swab, Castiel could not help but look over.</p><p>Dean’s eyes were focused on his task, delicately cleaning the freshly sewn wounds.  A muscle jumped in his jaw, giving away that he was not nearly as calm as he seemed.</p><p>“Are you alright, Dean?”</p><p>The hunter snorted, not looking up.</p><p>Castiel looked away, shame curdling like sour milk in his gut.  He’d told himself not to talk.  He <em>knew</em> Dean didn’t like it.  But he always felt compelled.  It was the only way he knew how to communicate with these humans that could not read his wings or even see his halo, let alone hear it.  So much of what he relied on to communicate with his own kind was utterly useless to humans. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble.”</p><p>Dean closed his eyes, face scrunching up like he was in pain.  “Cas…Cas, you aren’t the one that should be apologizing here,” Dean finally managed to grumble.</p><p>He tossed the cloth onto the small tray and looked Castiel in the eye, his gaze determined.</p><p>“<em>I’m</em> sorry, Cas.  I’m sorry I did…<em>this</em>, to you.”  He waved his hand to encompass something larger and more abstract than just Castiel sitting before him.  “I’m sorry you’ve had to cut yourself up because of the pain it’s causing you, I’m sorry I can’t figure out how to get this stupid binding off you.  I’m sorry I used it in the first place without knowing what it would really do – god, Cas, I’m just <em>so fucking sorry</em>.”</p><p>Dean looked dangerously close to crying.  Or breaking something.  Or both.  Either way there were tears welling in his eyes and Castiel could only stare stupidly as the man rose and viciously scrubbed them away with the same fury Castiel had seen him scrub bird shit off the Impala.</p><p>Normally, when he could tell Dean was agitated, Castiel would – he was ashamed to admit – sometimes place his wing over Dean’s shoulders in the ether.  Dean was never able to feel it physically, of course, but on some level it seemed to help.  Even if the hunter would have probably punched him in the face if he ever found out.</p><p>Castiel suspected that that kind of comfort – or any kind of comfort, really – was not something ‘guys’ did.</p><p>Now Castiel could lend no such assistance.  In fact, he was so uncomfortably aware of the <em>non-human</em> space that he occupied, that all he wanted to do was hide.</p><p>His wings twitched with the urge to wrap them around his own shoulders, but Dean had moved on to cleaning the fresh sigil.  It didn’t need cleaning. </p><p>Dean’s hands shook, and the light of Castiel’s body was reflecting in his green eyes.</p><p>When Sam appeared back in the room with his mother in tow, Castiel only felt a spike of annoyance and mild apprehension.  He did not want to be in the same room as Mary.  He did not want Dean to see the way she looked at him.  Like he was some creature to be put down.</p><p>Though her eyes were downcast and demure as she followed her youngest son into the room, the muscle jumping in her jaw – so like Dean – betrayed her.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Castiel,” she spoke before anyone else could.  Sam’s head snapped around to look at her, as if she had just broken some agreement they had come to before entering the room.</p><p>She cleared her throat.  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, “I’m not normally so…jumpy.  I…I wasn’t thinking clearly.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”</p><p>This was obviously for the benefit of her sons, as she was, indeed, not sorry.  Castiel could smell the distain rolling off her.  She didn’t trust him.  And why should she?</p><p>He stood, dislodging Dean’s hand before he could finish wiping all the blood from his skin, and squared his shoulders.  He would not be in this woman’s presence on uneven ground, even if she was weaponless at the moment.</p><p>If she were to suddenly attack him, Castiel wondered which of them the brothers would help.</p><p>He decided he didn’t want to know.</p><p>He resettled his wings, folding them tight enough to cramp and hating everything about what was happening.</p><p>Nonetheless, he felt compelled to at least attempt to ease the tension and extend an olive branch.  Sam and Dean did not need another reason to kick him out of the bunker when they had so many already.  If he could sooth Mary’s dislike of him for a little while longer, tactically, it was in his best interest. </p><p>“Understandable given that you have suddenly returned from the dead after thirty years.  Resurrection, even when you are expecting it, can be a bit jarring.”</p><p>He glanced up at the door leading out into the woods beyond the bunker, trying not to give off the feel of a prisoner about to pull a file from his pocket.</p><p>Because Sam had that <em>look</em> on his face.  That “<em>we’re going to talk even if it kills us</em>” look and was already sitting down at the table behind Castiel and Dean, a foreboding sense of determination in his normally soft brown eyes.</p><p>Castiel refused to turn his back on Mary and she, in kind, seemed unwilling to move close enough to Castiel to sit at the table. </p><p>Briefly, something nudged at Castiel, telling him that the right thing to do in that moment might be to back down.  But that just wasn’t in his nature.  He twitched, making a solid effort to show her his back, but couldn’t manage it, instincts stopping him.</p><p>Making himself more vulnerable than he already was to the hunter that had just shot him wasn’t worth the small platitude for the brothers.</p><p>It just wasn’t.</p><p>After several long seconds of Castiel and Mary staring each other down, Dean’s shoulders slumped even farther, if possible.  He couldn’t look his mother in the eye when he asked her to give them some space. </p><p>She left without a word, retreating back into the dormitory wing.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Castiel stared up at the high vaulted ceiling of the war room, wishing he were anywhere, doing anything, other than this.</p><p>It was torture. </p><p>He’d rather be stationed to watch over a boulder for the next million years.</p><p>He’d rather be on the end of Mary’s shot gun again.</p><p>He’d rather be talking to a mole rat.</p><p>Saying he’d rather be dead might be going a bit too far.  But only just.</p><p>He could no longer fit comfortably into a chair – his wings were much too voluminous – but he had managed to curl them around his shoulders and wedge himself between the armrests.  It’s not like he was going anywhere any time soon anyway.</p><p>Once, Dean had brought home a white paper bag for his dinner.  It had been nearly translucent with grease stains and had a purple logo on the front that said ‘Taco Bell’.</p><p>Castiel felt like a taco, the way he was wedged into this chair.</p><p>He couldn’t help but be envious of tacos in that moment.  Tacos were not sentient.  They did not have to think or experience anything.  They simply had to <em>be</em> tacos until they were eaten.</p><p>He felt like heaving a great sigh, even though he didn’t need to breathe; even though he hadn’t <em>bothered</em> to breathe in several minutes.  Sometimes he forgot to, when he was busy wishing he was elsewhere.</p><p>Dean’s voice droned on in the background of his awareness.</p><p>Absently, Castiel reached over to his left wing to scratch at a few feathers that were out of place.</p><p>A hundred years must have passed since Sam and Dean had started talking.</p><p>“Cas, are you even listening?”</p><p>“Yes, of course I am.”  Castiel tried smoothing down the feather that was out of place, but the shaft was bent and it would not go back.  He plucked it out and tossed it on the table, scratching again to sooth the sting.  That was odd, usually his feathers only came out so easily when he was close to a molt.  He dearly hoped that wasn’t the case.  His wings had only just been restored, how could they be molting already?</p><p>He chalked it up to having a rough week and chose not to think about it.</p><p>“Then what was I just talking about?”</p><p>He met Dean’s unimpressed gaze, fingers frozen in his feathers, and frantically reviewed the last few moments of the conversation.</p><p>He narrowed his eyes, “Angels.” </p><p>Dean’s eyes narrowed in return.  “Lucky guess,” he sneered.</p><p>It wasn’t lucky, or much of a guess, but Castiel let him have it.</p><p>Dean leaned back in his chair hard enough to have to hide a wince and folded his arms over his chest – one of many signals Castiel had learned meant that Dean was done talking now.  Possibly for several days.  He waited for the man to stand and storm off towards the kitchen in search of alcohol.</p><p>Instead, Dean glared moodily over at Sam and made a somewhat violent gesture in Castiel’s general direction. </p><p>“<em>You</em> wanna try?”</p><p>He made an effort to pay attention.  Sam sometimes knew how to talk so Castiel could actually understand.</p><p>“Cas,” Sam started, lacing his fingers together on the table and looking him dead in the eye.  But unlike Dean, it did not come across as a challenge.  “We just want to help you.”</p><p>Castiel glanced in Dean’s direction, wondering if that was what the man had been trying to say with his unfinished sentences and grunting. </p><p>Honestly, Castiel sometimes wondered how far humans had really evolved.</p><p>He refocused on Sam.  “Help me with what?”</p><p>Where Dean would have let his mouth fall open like he wanted to speak, and then clamp his jaw shut before he could, Sam’s stare remained fixed on him, unwavering and watching in a way that had Castiel sitting up straighter in his chair, tense.</p><p>Sam was <em>looking</em> at him, and Castiel wondered how it was different from all the other times the man had looked at him.  For one, he didn’t think Sam had ever maintained eye contact with him for this long, nor had he actually ever seemed to <em>see</em> him.  Not like this.  Not like he could <em>actually</em> see him.  Like he <em>wanted</em> to see him.</p><p>“Help you heal.  Help you feel better.  Just…help.”</p><p>“I…” he stared between them, all eyes shifting from one brother to the other and back, waiting for them to explain themselves even though he knew they wouldn’t.  Because they never did.  “…don’t understand.”</p><p>Identical looks of disappointment flashed across both their faces and the brothers shared one of those looks that meant they were having an entire conversation that would likely have gone right over his head even <em>if</em> they had bothered to have it out loud.</p><p>He scowled.</p><p>Sam turned back to him, his gaze as determined as ever.  “Cas, how do angels talk to each other?  How do you communicate what you think and feel to other angels?”</p><p>Castiel blinked several times, frozen in his chair, utterly blindsided by the abrupt shift in direction.</p><p>“I’d like to know,” Sam continued gently, sincere. “If you’re comfortable telling me.  Even if you’re worried I might not understand.”</p><p>“Why?” Castiel asked, immediately suspicious.  He squeezed himself out of the chair, perching on the edge so he could free his wings and spread them a little, driven by an instinctual need to be ready to move quickly if the need arose.  “Are angels trying to communicate with you?”</p><p>Sam’s eyes tracked the movement of his wings and then his face relaxed, the way it always did when he’d just solved some kind of puzzle.  He hid it quickly, but Castiel was left more confused that ever.  And frustrated.  After all this time, why was it <em>still</em> so difficult to read humans?  Sometimes he felt as if he’d learned absolutely nothing over the last ten years.</p><p>Sam was leaning back in his chair now, folding his hands over his stomach like he had no intention of going anywhere any time soon. Or particularly quickly.</p><p>Though the shift in body language was abrupt, Castiel relaxed minutely, pulling his wings back to fold loosely at his sides.  Evidently, whatever trouble the angels had been stirring up while Castiel was incapacitated, it was nothing too urgent. </p><p>Before he could demand Sam tell him what angels had been trying to tell him – lies, most likely – Sam spoke first.</p><p>“So do the colors of your feathers mean anything in particular?”</p><p>Blindsided for the second time in as many minutes, Castiel stared.  Dean was also staring at his brother, with an unreadable expression on his face.  But he didn’t interrupt.  Which was confusing, because that was the kind of question Dean would <em>normally</em> interrupt, with a red face, stuttering at Sam to shut up.</p><p>With the way Sam was watching him now – like Castiel was a particularly obscure and fascinating tome he’d just discovered in the bowels of the bunker – Castiel wished for the first time that Dean <em>would</em> derail the conversation.</p><p>As soon as he realized his coverts had started to rise under Sam’s gaze, he tried his best to flatten them, feeling heat spread through his face.  Sam’s eyes tracked the movement of his feathers, his eyes lighting up with satisfaction.</p><p>“Stop staring at me,” Castiel ordered.  Under the scrutiny, Castiel felt like his skin was crawling and his scapulars began to lift as well.</p><p>“But do they?” Sam pressed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.  He wasn’t looking Castiel in the eye anymore, his gaze flicking this way and that over his wings.  He seemed much more interested in how Castiel was <em>reacting</em> to the question than he may be in the answer to it.</p><p>Praying for patience – and for the sudden ability to understand humans – Castiel stood and started pacing, feeling the open wound that was the sigil in his chest pull at the edges of his skin.</p><p>“The colors develop as our grace develops.  It is like a fingerprint.  They are unique and entirely dependant on our physiological and biological makeup and power output.  No one angel has the same colors.  Though they may look the same, the shades are different.  I imagine the subtleties would be lost in the limited spectrum the human eye is capable of seeing.”</p><p>He stopped and braced his hands on the back of the chair he had vacated, opening his mouth to ask why Sam suddenly wanted to know about angels and the color of their wings but was, once again, interrupted before he could.</p><p>This time by Dean.</p><p>“I always thought they’d be all white.”  Dean’s tone was overly thoughtful, and the constipated look he’d had on his face mere moments ago had vanished into something much more…calm.  He and Sam shared another look, the corners of their mouths twitching.</p><p>“Yes, you <em>would</em> think that,” Castiel deadpanned.  It was an insult to anyone who knew to take it as one.</p><p>“I like the black, though.  It’s badass looking.”</p><p>His coverts flared again under the praise and Castiel bit his tongue.  Dean certainly wasn’t the first one to tell him his Hell scars were esthetically pleasing.</p><p>He felt the need to explain that there was nothing unique about them.</p><p>“Actually, Hellfire scars are the same color across every angel that survives it.  This particular shade of black is the only shade some of us share.  It might have been more common, if more of us had made it out of –“ He snapped his jaw closed, not wanting to open that particular can of worms at the moment.</p><p>He glanced at his right wing, eyeing the span of black somewhat wistfully, remembering the searing agony of hellfire turning his feathers to ash.</p><p>Such simpler times.</p><p>A brief look of curiosity mixed with something too close to pity for Castiel’s liking crossed Sam’s face.</p><p>He didn’t dare look at Dean.</p><p>Sam sighed, glancing at Dean contemplatively.  “We could call Crowley?  See if he can help us figure it out.”</p><p>Castiel’s attention snapped back to Sam and his wings flared in alarm, his scapulars spiking again, as if the King of Hell had suddenly materialized in the room instead of just their conversation.</p><p>“<em>What?</em> What are you <em>talking</em> about?” Castiel snapped, feeling no small amount of alarm.  He looked to Dean for help, but the man looked as unconcerned as ever, a stark contrast to his usual range of facial expressions any time Crowley’s name was mentioned.  Surely, they could not be so <em>stupid</em> as to call Crowley to ask about <em>angels</em> instead of just asking the <em>angel</em> standing before them.  It was lunacy.  And not even the usual lunacy born of desperation.</p><p>In fact, looking from one man to the next, Castiel suddenly realized the conversation was unnaturally ridiculous even for the Winchester brothers.   They weren’t – <em>couldn’t</em> be – serious.  The situation didn’t call for it.  It had felt as if he was missing entire parts of the conversation, but now he realised that wasn’t the case at all.</p><p>They were just saying things at random.  Asking directly about his wings.  About angels.  About calling Crowley.    </p><p>Things they knew would get a reaction out of him.</p><p>They were trying to read his body language.</p><p>Trying to read his <em>wings</em>.</p><p>His wings sagged with the realization and he desperately tried to put a name to how it made him feel.</p><p>Confused mostly.  And naked.</p><p>He didn’t like it.</p><p>Castiel stared at the brothers, frozen like a mouse that suddenly realized a cat had noticed him, unwilling to so much as twitch under their watchful gaze.  They stared back, hungry for any microscopic tell they might uncover with their probing questions.</p><p>“Why are you doing this?” Castiel asked at length, he slowly pulled his wings in, as if moving slower would somehow make them less visible. </p><p>He felt…trapped.  Caged.  Like he was something to be studied, poked, and prodded through the bars of a cage.</p><p>No human, and certainly not Sam or Dean, had ever shown this kind of interest in him.</p><p>For the first time he felt as if a solid line had been drawn between their species.  A hard line.</p><p>This went beyond trying to garner a basic understanding of his angelic powers and how they might be useful.  It went beyond the lingering looks when another reference soared over his head.  It went beyond a joke aimed at biblical stereotypes at his expense.</p><p>This was something deeper and altogether more unsettling.</p><p>Sam and Dean wanted to be able to see him and read him the way his own species did.</p><p>And it was entirely unfair.</p><p>His grace pulsed, as if reacting to a threat, throbbing like a thumb he had just smashed with a hammer.  He glanced down at the sigil, noting that his grace was no longer visible.  It was healing already.</p><p>Over the course of the years he had known the brothers, they had made it <em>very</em> clear that he was meant to behave as humanly as possible.  That his angelic traits, instincts, and thoughts – everything that made him <em>him</em> – was to be repressed and hidden away. </p><p>And now they were asking for the opposite?</p><p>He sighed, exhausted, torn between slogging through the rest of the conversation and turning on his heal to flee the ridiculousness of it. </p><p>“Why are you taking an interest in angels now?”</p><p>They both had the grace to look sheepish, but it was Sam that plucked up the courage to answer.</p><p>“We’re only interested in one angel, Cas, and that’s <em>you</em>.”</p><p>It became evident that no explanation was going to follow so Castiel leaned on the back of his chair again, feeling agitation and fatigue warring for attention within him.</p><p>“For a spell?  A sigil? A translation?  What, Sam?  Just <em>tell</em> me, these word games are exhausting and I did not have any energy to spare in the first pla -”</p><p>“Jesus Christ!” Dean suddenly snapped, surging to his feet and crowding so close to Castiel so suddenly that Castiel reflexively took a step back, wings flaring again, stance widening.</p><p>For a split second, his grace flashed in his eyes, sure that Dean had been about to attack him.</p><p>The hunter looked stricken, swallowed, but then ploughed on with determination.</p><p>“We’re <em>worried about you</em>, Cas.  We’re worried about your mental health.  We’re worried about the fact that you hate yourself and think you’re no better than whatever weapon you can hammer yourself into for us.  It makes us <em>sad</em>.  <em>We’re</em> sad because <em>you’re</em> sad, Cas!  We want to help you feel better because we want you to be happy but we don’t know <em>how</em> because you’re an angel and angels don’t need the same things humans need to be healthy so we’re trying to ask you to tell us how to help!”</p><p>Dean was red faced and puffing, like he’d just used his shoulder to break down a very secure door.</p><p>Castiel was frozen again, and he looked to Sam instinctually.</p><p>“He’s telling the truth, Cas.  We want to help you.  We want you to tell us what you need.  And…we want to talk to you more openly and directly but…it’s hard.  We’re trying to figure out how to talk to you in a way you’ll understand better.  We want to show you how much you matter to us; how much we care about you.  And we want to understand you better too.”</p><p>For the first time in his very long life, Castiel’s head was empty.  He felt as he had back at that gas station in Colorado.  Like he’d just been banished and his head was full of static.</p><p>This…this wasn’t how their relationship worked.</p><p>He closed his eyes for a moment, felt his wings drooping at his back, and tried to rework Sam’s little speech into something that fit inside the parameters of his place in the Winchester’s lives.  Parameters that the brothers had silently designated to Castiel over the last several years.</p><p>He came up empty handed.</p><p>“Cas?”</p><p>It was Dean’s voice that pulled Castiel’s eyes back open, sounding…worried?  He couldn’t be sure.  Castiel felt as if his perception of humans and what they were saying when they tried to communicate to him had been wrong since the dawn of man and he was only just now realizing it.</p><p>“Cas, what’s going on in that big brain of yours?”  Dean chuckled, but it was a weak, nervous little thing.</p><p>“Humans are so…changeable.  They ebb and flow like water.  Smashing against the shore with destructive force one moment and then still as glass the next.”  Castiel sighed.  “I understand you no more than a mountain can understand the lake at it’s feet.” </p><p>Sure, he could see the surface of the water when it glistened in the setting sun.  He could see the waves rushing towards the shore, and sometimes he may even glimpse a fish or two jumping out of the water to catch a bug, hinting at the lake’s <em>true</em> depth and complexity…</p><p>But the surface was all he would ever see, because, as the mountain, it was all he <em>could</em> see.</p><p>Castiel stared at the wall over Dean’s head, wondering if there was any point to talking at all anymore.  He was a mountain, cold, unchanging, his only voice the wind howling around his sky-bound peaks.  And he was trying to hear what the minnows were saying?   </p><p>Castiel’s smile was sad.</p><p>Dean was suddenly in his line of sight and very close to his face.  Castiel blinked his way back to the present conversation, resisting the urge to slap the man like a fly buzzing around his head.</p><p>“Cas, I know that look on your face.  It’s the one you get when you’re checking out.  I don’t know what kind of Holy bullshit your angel brain is spitting, but don’t listen to it.  Ok? The three of us are going to figure this out <em>together</em>.  And you’re not a mountain, ok?  You’re an <em>angel</em> –“</p><p>Castiel sighed, “An angel is not what you have decided they are in your head, Dean.”</p><p>“So what are they then?”</p><p>Castiel cocked his head to the side and narrowly caught a laugh between his teeth.  Dean was staring at him challengingly, arms crossed over his chest in the way that meant he had planted himself on this pyre and was prepared to burn.</p><p>Behind him, Sam was still sitting at the table with his elbows resting on its weathered surface and his hands clasped in front of his mouth, attentive.</p><p>Castiel stared between their determined faces and felt his patience thinning.</p><p>“Fine.  <em>Fine</em>.  If you want to <em>truly</em> understand what I am…then I will <em>show</em> you.”  The thought of having to try and explain with words what he looked like was laughable after the conversation they’d just had.</p><p>Even still, the thought of showing the brothers his true form when he already felt like…like an animal…</p><p>It turned his stomach.   </p><p>Dean looked as if he had been pushing against a door that had suddenly swung inward.</p><p>“But it will take some preparation.”  Castiel cast a mild glare towards Dean, ignoring the fact that his vessel was tossing bile around like it was thinking of ejecting some.  “I did not rescue you both from Hell – on two separate occasions – just to burn your eyes out a few years later.”</p><p>Sam stood, obviously relieved that they had a direction to start walking in. “Just tell us what we need to do.”</p><p>“Well,” Castiel sighed in the face of his old friend: resignation.  “The first thing we need to do is get this <em>barbaric</em> binding off me.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Feedback usually motivates me to write and update!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Castiel stared down at the words scrawled across the ancient and crumbling page.  With a sigh, he pushed the book away.</p><p>“Of course it was Norse.”  Of course it was.  He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a calming breath.  Still, he muttered an Enochian curse upon the Viking barbarians responsible for his current predicament. </p><p><em>Idiots</em>.</p><p>“What did you say?” Sam asked, a book open in his hands and an odd look on his face.  He seemed amused hearing the angel muttering so vehemently in his mother tongue.  There was probably no mistaking the intent behind them, even if he didn’t understand the words themselves.</p><p>Castiel stared across the library table, thoroughly <em>un</em>amused.  “Its not important.” </p><p>Dean sipped his coffee obnoxiously loud.</p><p>Castiel rubbed his chest with a grimace, cursing, for the first time, his angelic ability to heal at a ridiculous pace even without access to his grace.</p><p>“Already?”</p><p>He ignored the question, assuming it was rhetorical.  Humans loved those.</p><p>He couldn’t stop a grimace from contorting his face though, or stop his hand from drifting up to feel the closing edges of the cuts every few seconds.  As the skin formed the thinnest of scabs, the sigil began to lose its power. </p><p>Pulsing like a thready heartbeat, his grace was waking from its forced slumber.  And with it, the binds woke too. </p><p>Among other things.</p><p>The urge to pray was becoming stronger again, and he flicked his wing in irritation.  For whatever reason, and by whatever forces – he was starting to doubt that force was his Father – he had been given this gift and he wished he could just be happy about it.</p><p>Instead, he was trying to fight his own instincts.  Instincts his Father placed in him and every one of his siblings.  Blind worship, even when He did not deserve it.  A compulsion to follow orders, even when they were unjust.  And not only an aversion to free will but a near inability to even comprehend it.  But these were urges he had long since smothered.  At least he thought he had.  Why were they suddenly so strong?</p><p>A hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he shoved Dean away with his left wing out of reflex alone, already apologizing as he pulled the feathered arm back to his side and curled it protectively around his shoulder.</p><p>He realized that he had the back of his chair in a death grip, the other hand pressed to the sigil.  Feeling the tremor in his body now, Castiel pressed his forehead to the inside of his wing and took a few calming breaths.</p><p>“I hate this,” he admitted to the hunters out loud.  The easy way, with his eyes closed and his face pressed against the silky soft comfort of his feathers. Hoping that maybe it might take the weight of truth off his shoulder’s at least.</p><p>They didn’t apologize.  They didn’t need to and Castiel had demanded they stop.  If they hadn’t bound him, he would have killed them all.  If Castiel had had better control of himself he wouldn’t have forced them to bind him.  They kept trying to tell him otherwise.  That it was their fault, that they should have tried to help him wade through the murky quagmire that was human emotion instead of waiting until it was too late.</p><p>Maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault.  Maybe it just <em>was</em>.</p><p>Still.  He hated it.</p><p>He had never felt more vulnerable.  More out of control.  More <em>exposed</em> than he had in the past however many days or weeks it had been.  He should really check how much time had passed since Chuck and Amara had run off into the sunset.  Though he couldn’t think of a reason why knowing would matter.</p><p>It stood to reason that maybe he should say these things out loud.  The brothers had been insisting that they all say things that were personal and oftentimes deeply uncomfortable to hear.  They were trying to communicate on a deeper level, they told him, and were trying to fix a lifetime of <em>not</em> saying things by saying them all now. </p><p>And it wasn’t just him they were talking to.  He could, at least, read the tense silences on some days and then the almost foreign <em>lack</em> of tension the next day.  They were saying all these uncomfortable things to each other as well.  About things Castiel had no memory of.  About things that had happened between the brothers long before Castiel had entered their lives.</p><p>At first it had seemed like they were trying to painfully and pointlessly reopen old wounds.  But Castiel now suspected it was more like they were rebreaking a bone that hadn’t healed correctly so that they could set it.  It was painful, but in the long run, they would be much stronger than before.</p><p>“Cas…?”</p><p>Castiel peeled his hand away from the sigil by pure force of will and instead dragged the back of his trembling hand down the inside of his wing, letting the warmth and softness of his feathers seep into his skin and calm the shake.</p><p>He opened his mouth, and forced himself to speak as if a superior had demanded it of him.</p><p>“I find it difficult.  This.  Talking.  Explaining things that I am feeling that I was not given the ability to understand because I was never meant to.  I do not <em>like</em> having my wings out here.  I am…exposed.  I am vulnerable and I <em>hate</em> it.  An angel’s wings are more than just…arms.  They are our greatest weapon and our greatest weakness.  We use them to communicate, to touch, to comfort, and to kill.  There aren’t words in any language that can explain what it means to have lost them…let alone to have regained them.  I…” he cast around for the best word to describe how he had been feeling. </p><p>“I’m scared.” The realisation made him frown against his feathers, behind which he was still hiding.  He couldn’t imagine having to say all this <em>and</em> meet their eye.  Shame was curling in his chest like a slimy, writhing snake.  Some solider he was. Too afraid to even open his eyes.</p><p>“That’s perfectly understandable,” Sam said gently, the first to speak.  “We can’t imagine what you’re going through, Cas, but remember that this is the safest place in North America.”</p><p>Castiel tried to hide his sudden grimace behind his wing but Sam caught it.  The younger brother cleared his throat and exchanged a glance with Dean.  “Right.  Bird in a shoebox.”</p><p>Castiel bristled at the comparison, and at the evidence the brothers had been discussing him while he wasn’t around and comparing him to birds.  Instead of lecturing them about the many reasons he was <em>not</em> a bird, he chose to remind them of the difference between the bunker and a shoebox.</p><p>Moving so only half his face was hidden behind the edge of his wing, Castiel stared at Sam with one eye.  “A concrete shoebox, that has been buried underground.  That I am sharing with three hunters.”</p><p>There.  He’d said it. </p><p>He probably shouldn’t have but he was glad he did.  If they really, <em>truly</em>, wanted to understand his position in all this, then they needed to <em>hear</em> that as well as understand it. </p><p>He wasn’t convinced they would be able to manage the latter and he braced himself, holding Sam’s gaze.  Often times humans told him they wanted him to do something and then got angry when he did it.</p><p>On the other side of his wing, out of sight, but no less present, Dean huffed.  It was impossible to tell what that meant.</p><p>A myriad of emotions was pulling at Sam’s face but Castiel held his gaze.  Knowing that his eyes were glowing, knowing that the half-healed sigil was still very stark in his chest.  He shifted his wings, fluffed his feathers just enough for it to snag Sam’s eye, <em>willing</em> him to understand.</p><p>The defeated way Sam’s shoulders suddenly slumped let Castiel know he did.  He tried not to feel guilty when Sam’s eyes became glassy and the younger Winchester worried his lip between his teeth.  They had told him to talk.  They had told him to be honest.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Cas,” Sam seemed to struggle to get the words out, sounding like someone had a hand around his throat.  “I never thought of it like that.”  He looked like he had more to say, but he bowed his head and cleared his throat.</p><p>On the other side of his wing, Dean felt like a pillar of ice.  Castiel imagined the ragged emotions and accusations likely swimming in his green eyes and, unable to bear it any longer, finally pulled his wing against his back and looked up.</p><p>Instead of the familiar, comfortable, anger – Castiel knew how to handle an angry Dean – there was only sadness, deep and profound, in the man’s eyes.</p><p>“Cas…” his name whistled weakly from Dean’s throat and the hunter cleared it aggressively, shaking his head to dispel something unwanted from his thoughts.  “Cas, we would <em>never</em> –.”  Again he stopped.  Again he shook his head.  “You’re not a –“</p><p>After a moment of cloying silence, in which Dean could not come up with a word for what Castiel was not, Castiel felt compelled to fill in the blank for him.  “I'm not a what?  A monster?”  He felt his grace pulse, felt the binding tighten.  He spready his wings a little and, for a moment, let his real voice come through.  Just a little, just enough to drive his point home but not enough to rupture his vessel’s vocal cords.  He wouldn’t be able to heal them.  “I’m not something to be hunted?”</p><p>His words rumbled and cracked, deep, like a boulder rolling down a mountain side.</p><p>Sam stood instinctively, chair skittering accross the floor. Dean looked like he’d been about to take a step back and only just managed to stop himself.</p><p>A sickening slurry of satisfaction and disappointment churned in Castiel’s stomach.  He folded his wings again and brought his voice back down to an octave that would spare the light bulbs over their heads.</p><p>“I’m not human.  Not even something close to it.  I think you two often forget that.”</p><p>He imagined forgetting that was harder now that his wings were visible and his grace was so damaged and angry that it hissed and bucked beneath his skin, trying to free itself from the binding.  He knew they could see it drifting outside the confines of his vessel sometimes. </p><p>Whenever the sigil’s power began to fade, Castiel found it almost impossible to keep track of his body.  His <em>real</em> body.  He knew his eyes glowed an eerie blue, and the other day he’d looked down at his bare torso and saw dusty light drifting over his skin like sow drifting over a road.  To <em>his</em> eyes, it was easy enough to see the shape of his own feathers in the wispy light.  Not whole feathers, they were much too large for that, but the grain of a single plume, or the edge of a shaft here and there.  He doubted the humans noticed such details.  Something Castiel was grateful for.  It hinted at the monstrous size of his real body, something he was sure would unsettle them even further. </p><p>All that, and his wings on top of it.  He likely looked the least human he ever had to them and wondered what they thought now that they were forced to see him like this – so far from what they were used to and yet still so far from what he actually was.</p><p>He wished, not for the first time, that the binding had at least <em>hidden</em> his grace.  But it was a bit like tying a string around a lightbulb.  It did nothing to block the light.</p><p>He refocused his attention.  He’d started this uncomfortable conversation, he may as well let <em>all</em> the worms out of the can.</p><p>…or however that saying was supposed to go.</p><p>“You’ve hunted me before,” he reminded them carefully, shifting his wings and shoulders into something a little less hostile.  “More than once, even.”</p><p>“That was different,” Dean countered defensively.  Castiel could see anger building behind the man’s eyes.  “You were…you were…” he flailed a hand in frustration, unable to paint the picture he wanted Castiel to see.</p><p>“What was I, Dean, that I am not now?” </p><p>Compelled, now, to drive the point home as thoroughly as possible without <em>actually</em> showing them his true form – not that he could at the moment – Castiel stopped blinking.  Stopped breathing.  Turned himself into the marble statue he had taken so many long years learning to soften.  For <em>them</em>.  To be more like <em>them</em>.  To make <em>them</em> more comfortable.</p><p>His voice swept through the room like a breeze, rustling the pages of open books.  He threw his words into the air around them, keeping his vessels lips sealed for added emphasis.  They had <em>no idea</em> how many ways he moved his vessel just to make them feel more comfortable.</p><p>“<em>I am now what I have </em>always<em> been.  I am now what you have hunted in the past.  I am now what you have called your friend.  Your </em>family.  <em>What would you need to see from me now to decide that I need to be exterminated again?  My claws?  My teeth?  My eyes?  My halo?  What will be the thing that you decide is one non-human attribute too many? I am now what I will be for all eternity.  I am a </em>seraph<em>.”</em></p><p>The books were swept closed and chairs skidded a few inches across the floor with a powerful beat of his wings.  Castiel took a moment to reign himself in.  He’d been…unaware just how heavily this issue had been weighing on him.  But the pounding of his vessel’s heart in tune with his grace was…revealing. </p><p>Shocking.</p><p>Alarming, actually.  </p><p>Though, really, after all that had happened the last few weeks, finding out he was developing yet more emotions didn’t register as important.</p><p>Still.  They’d snuck up on him and he didn’t like it.</p><p>Dean looked torn between anger, nausea, and something close to heartbreak.  His teeth were clenched so hard Castiel was surprised he managed to pry them open and speak. </p><p>“If you’re talking about the time you ate all those souls…you had to be stopped, Cas.”</p><p>“I agree,” Castiel shrugged, “But would you have tried to kill me if I was a human and had caused such chaos?”</p><p>A muscle in Dean’s jaw rippled, “We don’t deal with humans, that’s what the cops are for!”</p><p>“Dean…” Sam admonished softly, looking stricken.</p><p>Dean blinked, stunned by his own words.  “I mean…I didn’t mean –“</p><p>Castiel swallowed, closing his eyes against a lance of pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the binding or the sigil.  “Yes, you did.  And its true, in any case.”  Castiel gave him an out, but the words stung.  He <em>wasn’t</em> human.  Which meant he was – in a hunter’s mind – a creature. </p><p>An animal. </p><p>Something inside him felt like it was icing over and an unfamiliar prickling sensation behind his eyes made him blink. </p><p>He looked away.  He wanted to ask if Sam had done the same, if Sam had swallowed all the souls in Purgatory to try and save the world and what was left of his family…would Dean have asked Death to murder him?  Would he have tried to kill Sam himself?  He felt sick at the idea of asking it out loud.  He already knew the answer.</p><p>He cleared his throat, there was no point in dwelling on something he already knew.  Even if the confirmation was upsetting. </p><p>Devastating, really.</p><p>But it never felt good to have your worst fears confirmed.</p><p>He made an effort to dust off some steely angelic walls and slammed them in to place like a makeshift wind block.  His skills were rusty, and the storm of emotions were still trying to blow him over…but some of the sharper pain stopped.  For the moment.</p><p>Of course, he thought numbly, he <em>would</em> be just human enough to feel emotions and all the pain they brought, but not human enough to fit in with their species.</p><p>He’d gotten the worst of both worlds.  But what else was new?</p><p>“Cas…”</p><p>He ignored Dean’s voice, rough with some emotion Castiel didn’t bother trying to decipher, and instead got the conversation back on track, because he had more to say.</p><p>“You’re right.  You don’t ‘deal’ with humans.”  Finally, now that he had numbed himself somewhat, Castiel looked up and met Dean’s eyes.  The hunter looked ill, and was leaning heavily against the table.  “Not long ago I was as close to human as an angel can get.” </p><p>Castiel let the silence settle.</p><p>Sam quickly swiped a hand across his eye and remained silent, either too upset or too overwhelmed to contribute to the conversation.</p><p>Dean was visibly struggling.  “That…that was different.  Sam was -”</p><p>“I know, Dean.  I understand.  But let me surmise for you:  either I am too powerful and need to be stopped or I am too weak and a liability.  Where exactly on the spectrum of usefulness do I need to reside so that I may continue to be the family you say I am?  Do <em>you</em> even know?  Or does it fluctuate depending on your mood and the current state of the universe?  You don’t want me the way that I am, nor do you want me the way that I am not.  I don’t blame you.  I have caused nothing but problems since I pulled you from hell.  I only wish that you would stop pretending,” he eyed them both, feeling like his heart was leaking onto the floor, “For your sake as well as mine.”</p><p>He thought of the few times the brothers had called him family and only now wondered if they were saying it just to get him to do what they wanted.  How many times had he been dissuaded from his battle plans – plans he knew could work – because one of the brothers had asked him to?  How many times had he turned away from his own family for them?  How many times had he fallen for them?</p><p>Why?</p><p>For all the many years he had known them, he’d listened silently while they talked about his kind with distain, hatred, and disgust and had naively believed he was different, separate, from them.  Still, it always hurt to hear.  Yes, heaven had it’s issues, but could Sam and Dean really claim to be any better?  And with how fully their hatred for his kind – and any non-human species – permeated their lives, how could Castiel ever think that they could see anything other than just another angel when they looked at him?</p><p>Castiel pulled a calming breath through his nose and recentred his focus through a stab of pain.  The bindings were getting tighter the more upset he allowed himself to become and his walls were already coming down as the storm in his head and heart gained strength.</p><p>If he was going to survive this, he’d have to practice putting those walls up and fortifying them.  It wasn’t that long ago he’d been a master at it.  Perhaps it wasn’t too late for him to regain the mental fortitude of a full angel.  A <em>real</em> angel.  He had let himself slip, had let himself get swept out into the sea of emotions that came with falling.  He had thought it was a good thing, feeling all these things, being more human.  But why did he want to be like these humans so badly anyway?  It wasn’t who he was.  It wasn’t <em>what</em> he was. </p><p>Would leaving the brothers behind even be all that difficult if he could once again become the soldier he had been?</p><p>He willed the walls to hold just a little longer.  “I have tried so very hard since I met you to soften the edges of my otherness.  I used to hate the look you both would get on your face when another reference went over my head or I said something or did something that you thought was odd.  ‘<em>Breathe more, Castiel.  Sit down, Castiel.  Don’t stare, Castiel.  Blink more, Castiel.  Loosen up, Castiel.  Eat something, Castiel.  Don’t just disappear, Castiel.  Don’t just show up, Castiel</em>.  On and on and <em>on</em> it goes!” </p><p>He shook his head, gasped as the bindings tried to wring him dry, and forgot everything else he wanted to get off his chest.  He flicked his blade into his hand and brought it to the fragile pink skin now covering the sigil.</p><p>Why was his hand shaking already?  Why were his legs shaking?</p><p>The walls came down, quickly and violently, his focus scattered in the storm, and he sank to his knees.  Bringing the point of his blade back up, he braced it with his other hand, but it too was shaking.</p><p>The terrible conversation faded away and his awareness condensed into a single point of focus: redrawing the sigil before he lost himself under the crushing strength of the binding.</p><p>There was a hand suddenly within his field of vision, reaching for his blade.</p><p>Castiel had spent millennia dodging enemy angel blades and doing his best to keep his own out of other hands – lest that hand be driving towards his vital bits – so when he quickly pulled it from the hunter’s reach and flared his wings behind him with a snarl, it was purely instinctual and should not have been taken personally.</p><p>Of course it absolutely <em>was</em> taken personally and the look on Dean’s face was the same one he’d had that time Castiel told him he’d accidentally put diesel in the Impala instead of gasoline.</p><p>His face drained of color, and for a moment he just stared down at Castiel like he was a stranger.</p><p>Perhaps, if Castiel had not just spent the better part of an hour talking about how he was a little worried – ok a <em>lot</em> worried – deep down, that being trapped in a box with hunters might end badly for him – hell one of them had already shot him – then all that fear wouldn’t be simmering just below the surface and he might have been able to control his instincts better. </p><p>He knew Dean wasn’t reaching for his blade so he could stab Castiel in the heart.</p><p>He <em>knew</em> that.</p><p>He <em>did</em>.</p><p>And he even mostly believed it.</p><p>Instead, he glared up at the hunter through grace-blown eyes, clutching his blade to his chest like a housewife might clutch her pearls.  If her pearls were the only mortal weapon that could end her entire existence. </p><p>His wings arched out to either side, which would have been more intimidating if he hadn’t still been on the floor, half-frozen in a scramble to get away.</p><p>Dean’s eyes were swimming with a lot of things Castiel likely could not decipher even if he had the energy to try.</p><p>The hunter held his hands up as a sign of peace and took several steps back.  “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to…to grab for it, I just,” he cleared his throat, the sound jagged, while he ran a hand down his face, “I just wanna help.  I can see your hands shaking and I know the lines gotta be clean.”  Another swipe, at his eyes this time, followed by a hollow, broken laugh.  “But hey, I get it.  You don’t want a hunter carving stuff into your chest with one of the few things that can kill you.  ‘Specially since it’s my fault you even have to –“</p><p>Dean’s voice chose that moment to finally fail him.</p><p>Over across the table, speaking like someone stepping out onto a barely frozen lake, Sam eased his way into the conversation as he made his way around the table, all the while maintaining eye contact with Castiel who, try as he might could neither move his legs to stand nor get control of his breathing.</p><p>Frantically, he tried to put the walls back up but they seemed to have disappeared all together, blown away.</p><p>“We’re not gonna hurt you, Cas,” Sam reminded him, swallowing heavily before continuing.  “You’re safe with us.  You can trust us.  Let us help you.”</p><p>Shame flared behind his ribs in a cold, quiet, explosion.  He hated that Sam felt the need to say that.  He hated it even more that a growing part of him didn’t believe him.</p><p>Instinctively, Castiel dipped his shoulder when Sam took another step closer, moving his blade just a few more millimetres away from the hunter’s hands and hating himself for it.</p><p>The bonds squeezed again.  He groaned, doubling over, and braced his forearms against the floor. </p><p>He’d waited too long. </p><p>He felt his wing tips drooping towards the ground and let them fall, the feathers fanning out across the tiled floor, and rode another angry wave of pain.</p><p>Sam’s giant hand was on his wing, the touch hesitant.  But the weight of it was…surprisingly comforting.  Much like Dean’s touch had been.  He focused on it instead of the feeling of being crushed under an ever-growing mountain.</p><p>He wanted to tell them that it felt like the binding was coming back stronger every time the sigil healed.  He wanted to tell them that was concerning for a number of reasons that he could not remember at the moment.  But as soon as the thought came to him, it was gone, his focus pulled incessantly back to that crushing forced wrapped all around him.</p><p>It would drive him mad, eventually.  He was certain of it.  Could feel his mind slipping harder and faster each time the snare snapped closed around him.</p><p>Sam was speaking, his words soft and gentle and slow.</p><p>At that moment, the magical ropes around his angelic body suddenly squeezed more violently than they ever had before and his world momentarily went black, his awareness condensing down to only the places where the binding was touching his real body, which seemed to be everywhere.  No inch of him felt like it was free.  White hot, dragging against his flesh and feathers like sandpaper, and squeezing with unimaginable strength, Castiel was suddenly, vividly, reminded of the one and only time he had met the World Serpent. </p><p>It had been coiled around the peak of a mountain, partially obscured among the clouds, concealed well enough that Castiel hadn’t even been aware it was there until he was flying alongside an eye twice as wide as his wingspan.  The oblong pupil had narrowed, watching him, and it had suddenly felt as if he was falling.</p><p>He fled.</p><p>The rumbling sounds of the mountain coming to life behind him had been terrifying.  The drag of the serpent’s body over the mountainside had sounded like planets colliding; a deep rumbling and crushing of stone as chunks of rock the sizes of villages were torn away, tumbling down into the valleys below.</p><p>He’d only looked back once, to see if the Serpent was following him, to see if he would soon be swallowed whole. </p><p>He saw only a great, fat curve of the Serpent’s body, scales gleaming like polished crystals, as it slithered between the clouds and retreated further into the mountains. </p><p>The encounter had had been brief and unsettling.  Angels were high on the food chain, but there were many creatures above them.  Castiel had had the distinct impression that, had the Serpent been peckish, Castiel would have made a fine snack.</p><p>The strength behind these bindings was what he had fearfully imagined being caught in the grip of the Serpent's coils might feel like.  He hadn’t been able to shake his imagination as he fled.  Something primal conjuring the images to urge him to flee faster, even though it had barely shown a passing interest in his presence. </p><p>But now, something was different.  Something had changed.  It no longer felt like he was being pressed in the coils of the great snake, but like he was trapped in its jaws. </p><p>He wasn’t sure how long he lay, instinctively frozen, as if the Serpent had snatched him out of the sky and was only waiting for him to start struggling before he pierced the angel with his fangs.</p><p>Eventually, around the edges of his laser-like focus, Castiel heard four distinct words.</p><p>
  <em>“Castiel, look at me!”</em>
</p><p>As if giving him the chance to obey, the pressure receded.  He sat up, willing to do anything in that moment to keep those jaws from snapping closed around him again.  He forced his eyes open and locked them on to Dean’s.  </p><p>The jaws stayed away, but he imagined he could feel hot breath, as humid as jungle air, radiating behind him like a threat.  And still, as ever, the searing drag of the binding across his skin lingered.</p><p>Dean’s mouth was moving, and slowly the words tumbled out in slow motion, hitting Castiel’s ears like the distant rumble of an approaching thunder storm.</p><p>Dean was telling him to breathe, to relax, that it was ok.  His vessel was tensed to the point of being stone-like, so he obeyed again and sagged with relief.  His energy, what little of it he’d had, leaving him as the binding eased back just enough to allow him to regain his senses.</p><p>The spell was rewarding him.  For obeying.</p><p>Disgust flooded him.</p><p>Instead of the floor, there was a warm body there to catch him and, judging by the size of it, it was Sam’s. </p><p>Sam maneuvered his way under Castiel’s limp right wing, letting it drape over his shoulders while he snagged an arm around Castiel’s waist to hold him up.</p><p>When he finally managed to register what his eyes were seeing, it was Dean kneeling in front of him, looking pained and holding the angel blade in his hand.  He hadn’t even felt them pry it from his grasp. </p><p>Dean was far enough away that, even if he stretched, the blade still would not have reached Castiel. </p><p>He still startled seeing it flash under the lights.</p><p>As soon as he moved, there was a threatening squeeze from the binding and he froze in Sam’s hold.</p><p>“It’s ok, Cas,” Sam said, trying to gentle his voice even as he tightened his arm around Castiel’s waist and grabbed his shoulder, pressing Castiel against him to keep him steady.  “You’re ok, he’s just going to redraw the sigil.  That’s all, we promise.  Remember where you are.  You’re in the bunker, you’re <em>safe</em>.”</p><p>He <em>was</em> safe.  Relatively speaking.  Despite the fears he’d confessed to them, <em>logically</em>, he knew that this was the safest place and the safest people he could find himself with.</p><p>He forced himself to breathe, having to fight hard against the turbulent waters muddying his mind to do so, and let himself lean in to Sam, grateful for how they both ignored the way he curled his fist into the flannel shirt under his hand.  It was warm and soft and something to hold on to while he tried not to let it show how uncomfortable he was that Dean was inching closer. </p><p>It helped that the hunter was looking at him like he was some kind of wild animal that was as likely to bolt as he was to try and rip out his throat.  It gave him the drive to prove the man wrong.  So he fought his instincts and held still.</p><p>Though he watched Dean’s hands <em>very</em> closely.</p><p>Dean made quick work of the sigil, though his frown deepened every time Castiel failed to bite back a gasp of pain.  His green eyes traced the tip of the blade as it cut just deep enough to bring a well of light spilling over the edges, reflecting the man’s ever turbulent emotions.</p><p>Halfway through, Castiel let his head fall back to rest against Sam’s chest and closed his eyes, having little other choice than to trust that Dean would finish the sigil without incident.  He couldn’t have fought back if he wanted to.  The binding would stop him. </p><p>He could tell the moment the sigil was complete.  His grace stuttered like a flame in the wind and then faded; receding from the searing coils of the bonds like a kicked dog moving to the back of its cage.</p><p>It took everything he had to clench his teeth around the sob of loss trying to claw its way from his throat.  Despite his care, a tear carved a hot track down his cheek.  Hands still shaking, he ran the tips of his fingers over his throat, unable to help himself.</p><p>The World Serpent receded into the mountains.</p><p>“It’s ok, Cas,” Sam whispered from somewhere that sounded higher up than he probably was.  “You’re ok, you’re ok, just take a minute to breathe.”</p><p>Castiel did just that, letting Sam take his weight and making his lungs expand and contract.  Even though he didn’t need to, it somehow helped calm the rush of blood in his ears. </p><p>“Your grace isn’t gone, it’s just hidden.”</p><p><em>Yes, that’s right</em>, Castiel reminded himself again.  Not gone.  It only <em>feels</em> like it’s gone.  But it’s not.  It’s still there.  He was <em>fine</em>.</p><p>He didn’t have to think so hard about breathing now.  At his side, Sam was becoming a warm and much more solid presence and Castiel pushed himself away to sit up on his own with great effort.  Memories, from millions of years ago, floated into the back of his mind, of a pile of limbs and feathers and softness and warmth and safety...</p><p>But it was gone again the next moment.</p><p>He pulled his wing from where it had been draped over Sam’s shoulder and curled both around his shoulders as best he could while sitting on the floor.  It took him a moment longer to realize his eyes were still closed and opened them.</p><p>“Thank you,” he meant to say with more conviction; it came out as little more than a shaky whisper. </p><p>‘A’ for effort, as Dean would say.</p><p>“We waited too long that time,” Dean mumbled.  He was ten feet away – as if he might have finally caught on that being close to an angel with an angel blade in his hand might be stressful for said angel – carefully whipping Castiel’s blade clean with a cloth.  And carefully not looking at Castiel.  “It’s getting worse isn’t it?”</p><p>Castiel glance over at Sam still sitting beside him, noted the concerned press his lips and the wide, brown eyes watching him, and reminded himself that they were trying to <em>not</em> lie to each other now.  No matter how uncomfortable.</p><p>“Yes, it’s getting worse.  Something has changed.  I…it feels different now.  Stronger.  Worse.”</p><p>Dean still didn’t look up.  The blade was clean now, but he kept running the cloth over it all the same.</p><p>“As soon as the sigil weakens, the bonds…they don’t just reappear, it’s like they’re trying harder each time to crush me.  It feels…angry.” Castiel swallowed, unable to come up with a suitable word to describe the terror and pain of this particular spell.  “I’ve been bound before but…not like this.  Nothing has <em>ever</em> felt like this.”</p><p>“When were you bound before?” Sam asked gently.</p><p>“Naomi.  When I wouldn’t keep still.”</p><p>Dean set his blade carefully on the table, where it gleamed under the lights overhead like the supernatural object that it was.</p><p>Castiel took a deep breath, relishing the freedom to do so.  “But those were clean.  Painless.  More like paralysis than anything else.  This one…it gets to the point where I can’t even think properly.  It’s…” he swallowed his pride, “It’s terrifying.  And it gets there faster and faster each time the sigil fades.  Have...have you ever heard of the World Serpent?” Because really, if they knew what Jormungandr was, he could just say it feels like being clamped in his jaws and crushed in his coils.  Instead of trying to <em>describe</em> how that felt.</p><p>If Sam and Dean were angels, Castiel could <em>show</em> them what the binding was doing to him.</p><p>They both shook their heads and Castiel didn't elaborate.  He did not have the energy to relive that memory a second time.</p><p>Silence for a moment, and then Sam’s large hand was pressing against the top of his wing.  When Castiel offered a small, grateful smile, the weight of Sam’s hand settled more fully.</p><p>“Can you tell us why you keep touching your throat like that?”</p><p>His heart stuttered in his chest.  “Oh…yes, um.  Metatron – he – when he –“</p><p>For the first time in a very long time, Castiel felt himself unable to speak.  Memories of Metatron restraining him with gleaming metal cuffs invaded his memory.  His breath had smelled awful.  His giggles had been even worse.  He’d never felt more helpless in his entire existence as he had when the scribe had leaned over him with such glee and cut him open.  He’d been nothing to Metatron.  Just a useless animal that he’d needed a piece of for his recipe.  And he’d tied Castiel down and taken it so easily.</p><p>And then tossed him away like a used carcass.</p><p>Someone was stroking his wing.</p><p>It was nice.</p><p>He chose to focus on it instead of Metatron’s twisted grin.</p><p>Dean was sitting cross-legged in front of him, Castiel hadn’t even noticed him sit down, his expression grave.  He wore that same expression so often these days that Castiel worried it might be permanent.</p><p>It was Sam, still sitting close enough to Castiel’s side that he could feel the man’s warmth, that was carefully and methodically petting his wing. </p><p>He wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact that they had figured out that it was comforting to him.  Angels weren’t supposed to need comfort, where they?  He didn’t care, he was too tired.  He looked at the empty space next to him and decided it was a good enough spot to have a nap but before he could fully pitch himself sideways, Sam’s hand left his wing and caught him under the arm, keeping him upright.</p><p>Castiel threw a very mild and likely ineffective glare in his general direction before remembering he’d yet to answer their question.  He only just stopped his hand halfway to his throat, but both the brothers’ noticed it all the same.</p><p>“Metatron –“</p><p>“You don’t have to explain, Cas,” Dean told him, voice soft and eyes glassy. “We know.”</p><p>“But I didn’t even tell you.”  Though he was relieved, he wasn't sure he could have gotten the words out anyway.</p><p>“It’s ok, you didn’t have to.  You’re literally falling over.  If you want, you can tell us about it later, when you’re feeling better.  Come on, you need some rest.  We’ll help you up.  C’mon.  One, two, three!”</p><p>The brothers lifted him from each side and held him steady until Castiel was sure his shaking legs would support him.</p><p>“Gotta say, buddy, I thought you’d be way heavier with those gigantic wings.”</p><p>He blinked, staring down the long hallway that led to the dorms.  It seemed an impossible distance.  “My bones are hollow.”</p><p>“…right.”</p><p>The atmosphere between the three of them was so heavy that even Castiel was acutely aware of it.  He thought he would have regretted saying everything he had.  He’d held those insecurities so closely for so long.</p><p>But there was something dismally freeing about having those insecurities confirmed.  Maybe…maybe he could move on now.  Move on to what, he wasn’t sure, but he felt as if – despite the literal magical chains that were binding him – he had been set free from a captivity he hadn’t been aware of.</p><p>It left him feeling oddly hollow inside.  But he often felt hollowed out these days.  Like someone had sliced him open and scooped out all his insides.</p><p>He pushed it aside for now, focusing on just making it to his bed.  He managed to struggle down the hallway unassisted, though both brothers hovered close by, and finally, he reached his designated room and the illusion of security it brought him.</p><p>Passing through the door, Castiel found, to his confusion, that his bed had been removed from the room.  In its place, three mattresses had been laid on the floor, and what had to be every free linen and pillow in the entire bunker had been laid on top. </p><p>A nest.  They had built him a nest.</p><p>“We uh…thought it might be more comfortable,” Dean fumbled, breaking the delicate silence.  “Since, you know…your wings are so awesome and huge and everything.  That little bed was pretty small.  So…um, yeah…”</p><p>Dean offered him a shy but genuine smile when Castiel dared look at him.  On his other side, Sam offered the same. </p><p>It was an undeniably caring gesture from the brothers and he felt a brief surge of affection towards them.  But couldn’t help but feel a filament of suspicion as well.  Not after the conversation they’d just had.  He felt guilty for the feeling, but the guilt did nothing to stop it. </p><p>For now, he shoved all that aside and threw up some feeble walls.  Too much had happened in the last hour and he was too exhausted.  He could barely think straight, let alone analyze whether his thoughts and emotions made rational sense.</p><p>He was – he scowled – too emotional to logically evaluate the conversation and how he felt about it’s revelations.  He needed to rest before he did anything else.</p><p>Thanks to the brothers, he had a proper place to do so.  He felt them trail him in to the room and felt their eyes on his back as he took the wobbly step over the ridge of blankets, flaring his wings for balanced when he wobbled a bit too much. </p><p>“Thank you,” he nearly moaned as he sank into the ridiculous pile of soft sheets and pillows.  Shamelessly, he nuzzled down into the nest, wiggling his way between pillows and blankets until he was surrounded on all sides by softness, then curled himself into a ball inside his wings.</p><p>“<em>Thank you</em>,” he told them again, for good measure.  Later, when he had the energy and unconsciousness wasn’t creeping up on him like a wave, he would thank them properly.  For now, those two words would have to do.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>Just for funsies, here is a lil gif of the World Serpent from God of War:</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Umm...so some of you may noticed I added a Cas/Dean tag.  It's gonna be super duper slow burn and there won't be any smut...but, romantic feels will be had between them fo sho.  Anyways....tell me what you think of this chapter!  The World Serpent stuff just came to me while I was editing it.  But I liked writing that little bit so kept it in.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>GUYS! Ella has made some absolutely stunning art for this story!  <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ellabrennanbutler/">Please go check out their insta!</a></p><hr/><p>
  
</p><hr/><p>“So the nest turned out to be a good idea.”</p><p>Dean grunted, heat creeping up his neck.  He took another sip of the tea he wished was whiskey, wondering why doing something nice for his friend made him feel so embarrassed.  That didn’t seem…normal.  Usually, he would have drowned that question with alcohol – which also didn’t seem normal.</p><p>The ‘nest’ had been his idea.  After watching Cas try to curl up on that standard twin mattress with his wings as big as they were…well.  It couldn’t have been comfortable and he doubted angels were meant to take their rest in beds.  He wasn’t trying to think of angels as birds, since it obviously irked said angel, but there <em>was</em> a certain undeniable…likeness.  And if nests worked for birds then surely, they could work for other winged species.</p><p>Cas had seemed impossibly, profoundly, grateful for the gesture and Dean desperately hoped it eased at least some of the anxiety he’d confessed to having about how out of place he felt in their lives.</p><p>It had taken them all of twenty minutes to put together, and Cas had reacted like they had done something huge.  It was sobering, to realize just how low the bar had been set for them, and that such a simple gesture had shocked the angel so much.</p><p>It was a good start, but Dean wasn’t fooled in to thinking it would help with all the other stuff Cas had confessed.  He didn’t know what <em>would</em> help with that.  If anything even could.</p><p>He glared down in to his mug of sorely inadequate peppermint tea. </p><p>Peppermint tea, Sam had assured him, was supposed to help calm his stomach.  But despite the fact that he was on his third cup, every time Dean thought about how Cas had looked at him a few hours ago – like he was <em>truly</em> worried Dean might hurt him – his stomach heaved, sloshing the good-for-nothing tea around in his gut. </p><p>Cas had looked in to his eyes and there had been real fear there.  He’d told them being in the bunker with three hunters scared him.  It had been hard to hear and Dean immediately tried to convince himself that he just misunderstood what Cas meant. </p><p>There was no misunderstanding Cas’ expression when he’d realised his blade was in Dean’s hand.</p><p>It was funny, in a morbid kind of way, that Dean had literally been stabbed in the chest before and it hadn’t hurt nearly as bad as seeing Cas look up at him with that <em>look</em> on his face.</p><p>Because other people had looked at him with that same expression, right before he’d killed them.  Which, for a normal person, would be a logical reason to feel nauseous.  But that wasn’t what was bothering him. </p><p>No, it was the fact that those ‘other people’ weren’t actually <em>people</em>.  They were vampires, werewolves, wendigos, various forgettable monsters…and angels.  So many angels.  Some of them had died angry, rage in their eyes even after Dean had speared them on the end of a borrowed angel blade.  But most of them…most of them all had the same flash of shock, sometimes confusion, right after he landed the fatal blow.  Like they didn’t <em>understand</em>.  But the fear always took over in that moment where they realized what was about to happen.</p><p>Cas had confessed that being trapped in the bunker with hunters was making him nervous and Dean had immediately been outraged.  Until Cas had looked up at him with the same expression so many of his brothers and sisters had before Dean mercilessly killed them.  Without a thought.  Without feeling anything at all.  Because they were angels.  It wasn’t like he was killing a <em>human</em>.  And angels, vampires, werewolves, and whatever else didn’t matter.  Not like humans mattered.</p><p>Carefully, he set his mug on the table, his hand trembling and chest shuddering with the sudden revelation. </p><p>He understood. He <em>understood</em> why Cas was uncomfortable, why he was <em>scared</em>.  How could he not be?  He was bound by painful magic, powerless, and locked in a little box with three people who killed supernatural beings for a living.  And Mary had gone and proven Cas' fears to be true by shooting him.  Dean wondered, after everything, how he could have thought that Castiel the <em>Angel</em> could ever feel safe around them, especially when he was as vulnerable as he was now. </p><p>In the past - a past that was not all that far behind them - Castiel had watched them slaughter angels.  His siblings.  His fellow <em>soldiers</em>.  Sometimes he had helped, sometimes he had just simply not intervened.  Dean could only guess at the kind of mental damage that level of perceived treason had inflicted upon the angel every time it happened, even though the anguish in Cas' eyes hadn't left much need for guesswork. </p><p>Had he ever wondered, as he watched Sam or Dean impale another one of his species on the end of their own blades, if he might die by their hands one day?  Dean supposed he didn’t have to wonder. </p><p>Thinking back on it, Dean realised they hadn't stopped at simply killing angels, but had taken every chance to verbally attack them as well.  Even when they weren't around.  Even when they weren't involved in whatever crisis was happening.  And Cas heard it all.  Had he assumed the brothers were talking about him as well, whenever they had something nasty to say about angels?  Of course he never said anything, never called them on it, would just stand there and frown at them like he always did.  But now…now Dean was reading that frown a different way.  Memories of talking shit about angels, saying he wished they’d all die, calling them all the things he had called them, gloating about killing them... </p><p>Of course, Cas had killed his own kind as well, but it was always as a last resort.  He always <em>tried</em> to talk first, always <em>begged</em> to talk second.  It almost never worked and Dean knew Cas had killed more of his own kind than either he or Sam knew about.  But it had broken him in a way Dean was worried might never heal.</p><p>Racking his brain now, he couldn’t come up with any reasons why Cas <em>should</em> trust them.  What had they done to make him feel like he was part of their family?  Said it out loud, once, maybe twice, in the heat of whatever crisis was happening at the time?</p><p>Dean swallowed a swell of bile, trying to intimidate his mug of tea into morphing into a tumbler of whisky.  </p><p>“We agreed,” Sam reminded him from across the table, without even looking up from his book.</p><p>“I <em>know</em>,” Dean sighed, looking away from the mug.  No more alcohol for a while.  Cas needed them both to be at their best, mentally and physically, and they – Sam – had decided alcohol was not conducive to a mentally healthy household when those in it were as damaged as they were.</p><p>Sam was right, but that didn’t make it any less annoying.  In fact, it made it <em>more</em> annoying.  With his usual crutch having been whipped out from under him, Dean was left with…tea and his own budding ability to psychoanalyse himself.</p><p>Pushing away the memories of all the times he had failed Cas and the burgeoning dread that he may never be able to gain the angel’s trust - or if he even deserved it - Dean instead thought back to his small victory.</p><p>After seeing the nest, there had been an initial blink of confusion and then a rush of gratitude in Cas’ eyes.  The warmth had been so obvious that it seemed to have spread to Dean, leaving him feeling like Cas had given him a hug even though they weren’t touching.  And, he didn’t know if it was because Cas’ defenses were so low, Dean was sure he saw the crisp glow of grace in his eyes infuse with gold for just a split second.</p><p>He tried not to worry about it.  A color as rich and warm as that gold was <em>good</em>.  It was a gut feeling, something Dean just <em>knew</em>. </p><p>Maybe it was another way angels communicated. </p><p>Sam had told him once that when a telepathic man had looked at Cas all he could see was ‘colors’.  As soon as he had the energy, he was definitely going to look in to it.  But for now, the human encyclopedia across the table would do.</p><p>“Do you think color is important to communicating with angels?”  he asked his brother aloud.  Sam always had weird insight into weird shit. </p><p>Sam blinked from across the table, “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well…Cas said no two angels have the same color feathers and that the color of their feathers is shaped by their grace.  And remember that guy?  The one you said tried to read Cas’ mind but all he saw was colors?  Well, when we helped him to his room earlier and he saw the…the nest or whatever, I saw his eyes turn gold a little bit.  Like not his actual eye balls, but his grace.  I mean, it was a color, and color shouldn’t feel like anything, but…I dunno.  It felt warm or good or…something.  Do you think…does that make sense?”</p><p>Sam leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful.  “As much as any of this makes sense.  It certainly doesn’t make any <em>less</em> sense.”  He took a moment to rub the palms of his hands into his eyes, hard.  “I’m not really sure what to do here, Dean.  We didn’t have many books on angels to begin with and I’ve been through all of them three times over.  There’s nothing in any of them besides how to summon, trap, and kill them.”</p><p>Dean winced.  Was that all humans had bothered to learn about Cas’ species? How to snare, enslave, and dispose of them? </p><p>He couldn’t judge, up until now that was all he’d learned about angels too.</p><p>“Nothing else on the binding?”</p><p>Sam shook his head.  “Just that one page we had that I showed to Cas.  I ordered all the Sagas I could find online but there are so many of them…It’ll take <em>weeks</em> to just read through them all, let alone start cataloguing information that might be useful.  If there even <em>is</em> anything useful in them.  Which seems unlikely because besides that one page with the spell on it I can’t find <em>any</em> mention of it anywhere.  And there’s probably some obscure one’s I don’t even know exist.  Not to mention not all of them have been translated and I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly an expert in ancient Norse languages so it’ll take time to translate them as well.”  Sam sighed, becoming more agitated with every listed obstacle they faced.  “We need to do something else.  There has to be something we can do for him <em>now</em>.  Dean, that look on his face earlier -”</p><p>“Sam-“ Dean sighed, sounding as annoyed as he felt.  He couldn’t deal with any more negativity at the moment.  He <em>needed</em> to hear something good.  Because all he could see was the fear in Cas’ eyes when he realized Dean was holding his blade.  All he could feel was the stab of pain in his chest hearing Cas admit he felt like rabbit in a den of lions.  </p><p>Dean had felt like a predator looming over injured prey and he hated it.</p><p>He’d never had cause to examine the feeling of power killing monsters had given him and he didn’t think he was ready to examine it now.  Not after the day they just had, with it's terrible revelations and admissions.  He needed something <em>positive</em> to focus on for a bit.  Just until the heaving in his stomach subsided.</p><p>Sam, agitated, stared at him hopelessly.  “What, Dean?  This is going to take too long, longer than Cas has.  What if this thing is meant to <em>kill</em> the angel it’s bound?”</p><p>“That,” Dean swallowed, “That doesn’t make sense.  Why would you bind an angel just to slowly kill it?  You’d bind an angel to <em>capture</em> it.  So, we just need to figure out why someone would want to capture <em>and</em> subdue an angel.”</p><p>His stomach twisted, feeling sick with just the thought of getting in to a head space where Cas was some creature to be caught in a snare.  A headspace Cas already believed they were in.</p><p>Sam shrugged, looking lost and frustrated, but casting around for ideas anyway.  “To…to study them?  To get information?  Maybe the Norse people worshipped them or thought they were gods?” He frowned, “No, that doesn’t make sense, they wouldn’t forcibly abduct and enslave their gods.  Maybe as a sacrifice <em>to</em> a god?”</p><p>Dean felt like he was circling a viable idea and with every new image Sam conjured, Dean found himself picturing Vikings.  Blood-thirsty, power-hungry, and with the influence of the old gods thrumming through their veins.  What could people like the Vikings want from an angel bad enough to not only create a binding to enslave it, but to risk annihilation to capture it?  After all, an angel would not take such treatment lightly.  If they failed, the angel would certainly slaughter them in retribution for even trying.</p><p>Suddenly it clicked.</p><p>“A weapon,” he said aloud, peppermint tea failing him again.</p><p>Sam stopped mid-ramble, blinking before a knowing look settled on his face and he nodded somberly.  “That…yeah, that seems most likely, doesn’t it?  What better way to have the edge against all your enemies than to weaponize the universe’s most powerful and efficient soldiers?”</p><p>Dean felt a sadness spreading through him like frost creeping over delicate foliage and something in him shrivelled and died.</p><p>He’d used a spell on Cas that had been created to enslave him.  To turn him in to a killing machine.  Humans had used that spell to rip Cas’ brothers and sisters from heaven and trap them on earth, forcing them to fight in their petty human wars.  Forcing them to slaughter the very creations their Father had ordered them to protect.</p><p>They were trying to get Cas to believe he was more than whatever tool he could shape himself in to and Dean had gone and chained him down with a spell designed to <em>use</em> him as a weapon.</p><p>Dean swallowed around the tightness in his throat as Sam continued.  “That must be why he’s reacting the way he is whenever we say something that sounds like an order.  I mean, like I said before, in the past I noticed that if one of us says something that he <em>perceives</em> as an order, he always seemed to kind of struggle with…something.  Like he consciously has to think about what he wants to do instead of just…doing it.  Almost like he’s fighting the impulse to immediately comply and has to actually think for a second to –“</p><p>“Yeah, I was also there for the conversation you and I had,” Dean made a real effort not to bark.  But that particular revelation was still fresh and raw in his mind.  Realising, years later, how barking orders at Cas was so very, very different from barking orders at everyone else had been unpleasantly enlightening.</p><p>He took a sip of his tea, just in case he was one mouthful shy of it working. </p><p>“I’m just saying that it’s definitely more noticeable now and it makes sense that they’d work that in to the binding.  The obedience part is already hardwired into angels, maybe they just amplified it.  And the praying thing too.”</p><p>“Now that I think about it,” Dean roughly cleared his throat, forcing his brain to be helpful.  “The only time he seems actually incapable of disobeying an order is when the sigil is healed over.  The sigil smothers his grace, which makes the binding back off, and he can…exercise free will.  As soon as the sigil heals...”</p><p>“He’s a slave again,” Sam finished with a sigh.  But then he straightened suddenly.  “Oh…but angels are already slaves in a way, aren’t they?  They just all have the same master: God.  What if the Vikings meant to transfer that title to the spell-caster?”</p><p>Dean pursed his lips at his tea mug.  “So the spell caster becomes the captured angel’s new God?” He shook his head, “Jesus Christ…”</p><p>Stealing angels must have been no different then stealing food, horses, weapons, or anything else the Vikings could use.  They had seen something shiny and they had taken it for themselves.  Then taken it a step further, because apparently it wasn’t enough to steal a living creature; they had to force it to submit to them and kill for them as well.</p><p>A sudden, terrible, thought occurred to him then.  He thought back to what had transpired in the library earlier, how Cas had looked up at them with fear and distrust and no small amount of anger but, more importantly, how he had refused to give them his blade to let them cut the sigil. </p><p>“That’s what happened when he froze up earlier,” Dean said woodenly.  “The spell was forcing him to do what we said.”</p><p>Sam blanched.  “I told him to let us help him…and he didn't let us.”</p><p>“So the spell crushed him so he couldn’t move.  He didn’t snap out of it until I ordered him to look at me.”  Dean bit the inside of his cheek so he could blame the prickling in his eyes on the pain.</p><p>For a few moments, neither of them said anything and Dean prayed the silence would last into tomorrow.  He couldn’t take any more gut-wrenching revelations tonight.  There wasn’t enough peppermint tea in the world.</p><p>Alas.</p><p>Sam scrubbed at his face, as if trying to wash away the fatigue and all the emotions likely clogging his head.  “We’ll have to be more careful how we word things when we talk to him, and make sure he doesn’t leave the bunker.  That spell just took away his ability to say ‘no’ to anyone.”</p><p>Bile rose in the back of Dean’s throat at the images Sam’s words invoked. </p><p>He shoved those thoughts deep, deep down.  Cas was <em>safe</em>, he was in the bunker where Dean could protect him and Dean would make sure he <em>stayed</em> protected until they had found a way to give him back the free will he had worked so hard for. </p><p>“I don’t understand the praying though,” Sam continued with an air of wanting to move on.  There was a thoughtful frown on his face.  “Maybe they wanted to make it so the captured angel worshipped <em>them</em> instead of Chuck and they couldn’t quite manage it but it still ramped up their drive to worship?”</p><p>“Yeah, maybe…”</p><p>“…you ok?”</p><p>Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling overwhelmed and saying as much.  “This is just…a lot a heavy shit.  And I just don’t know where to start.  This Biblical stuff keeps getting crazier and crazier…not to mention more depressing.  No wonder angels are so messed up.”</p><p>The silence from Sam changed into something much heavier, then, and Dean looked across the table.</p><p>Hesitantly, Sam spoke.  “I wasn’t just trying to get a rise out of Cas when I suggested calling Crowley for help earlier.”</p><p>Dean sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who was getting tired of their ridiculous lives.</p><p>“We’re out of books, we’re out of ideas, and Cas is literally too traumatized by the last ten years of his life to understand what is going on inside his head, much less communicate it to us in a way we’ll understand.  So, if you can’t get the information from the target, who’s the next best source of intel?”</p><p>Dean’s lips thinned.  “The target’s enemy.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Their relationship with Crowley was…weird and uncomfortable.  To say the least.  Dean didn’t like to think about it too much. </p><p>Was the King of Hell still their enemy?  Yes. </p><p>Was the King of Hell also in his contacts list?  Yes. </p><p>Did a picture of he two of them wearing cowboy hats pop up with the caller ID when the King of Hell called him?  Also yes.</p><p>Did he kinda, sorta, trust the guy a little bit? Yes…but also no.</p><p>It made his head hurt, so he just jabbed his thumb into the little image of Crowley’s stupid face and brought the phone to his ear.</p><p>This was for Cas, and he would do anything for Cas.  And Dean was almost sure that Crowley could be convinced to do anything for Cas too, if they could find the right leverage.</p><p>“<em>Squirrel.  Long time no chat.  I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me</em>.”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes at Sam as he began to pace back and forth in front of his brother, where he stood half sitting on the edge of a library table.  He looked as tense as Dean felt.</p><p>“Hey, Crowley…uh…how’s it going?”  Dean winced, wanting to punch himself.</p><p>“How’s it going?” Sam mocked from the sidelines.</p><p>He flailed his hand in Sam’s direction.</p><p>“<em>You know, Squirrel, I’m starting to notice a trend here.  You only ever call when you want something.  It hurts my feelings.”</em></p><p>“Just –“  Dean bit his tongue before he snapped at the posh accent.  He took a deep breath, literally able to <em>hear</em> the smirk coming through the line.  “We need your help.”</p><p>“<em>My help?  What could you possibly need from little old me</em>?”</p><p>Another deep breath. </p><p>“Cas is in trouble.  Big trouble.”</p><p>“<em>Are you calling from the bunker or from 2011?</em>”</p><p>“That’s not funny.”</p><p>“<em>It’s a little bit funny</em>.”</p><p>“Dammit, Crowley, will you help us or not?”</p><p>“<em>Well, not if you’re going to talk to me like that!  Say please</em>.”</p><p>Dean bit his lip hard enough to break the skin and only managed to pry his teeth apart just enough to snarl, “<em>Please?!</em>” into his cell phone.</p><p>“<em>Alright, you’ve charmed me in to it.  Be there in a flash.  Make sure you’re at the door to let me in, it’s raining and this suit is too expensive to ruin.”</em></p><p>
  <em>Click</em>
</p><p>Dean tossed his phone on to the table with a fair measure of control.  Talking to Crowley always made his blood pressure skyrocket.  Less because he was a <em>very</em> powerful demon and more because he was such an annoying little prick.</p><p>“For Cas,” Sam muttered behind him.</p><p>Dean released his breath, slow and controlled, to the count of four, just like the internet had told him to.</p><p>Neither of them mentioned the fact that Crowley was going to want something in return for his help and it was probably going to be something super evil.</p><p>As if the mere thought was enough to summon the man, there came three smart raps on the large iron door at the top of the staircase.  Dean tossed his head in the direction of the door and began to pace, as Sam climbed the steps with heavy footfalls, Dean glanced in the direction of the dormitories, where he tried to convince himself that Cas was sleeping instead of full-blown unconscious.</p><p>Only then did it occur to him that they had just invited, not only a demon, but the <em>King of Hell</em>, into their home, mere hours after Cas had admitted to them that he felt exposed, vulnerable, and <em>scared</em>.</p><p>Dean actually had to swallow down peppermint flavoured bile as it surged up his throat, stomach heaving as he spun to tell Sam to keep the door shut.  But Crowley was already walking down the stairs in front of his brother and Dean wiped a clammy hand down his face. </p><p>He’d betrayed Cas <em>again</em>.  Put him in danger <em>again</em>.  Disregarded his needs <em>again</em>.  How were they failing at this over and over?  Why was it so hard to be good to each other?</p><p>Crowley was smirking – though that might just be permanent by now – when he stopped in front of Dean.</p><p>“My, my, you’re very pale, Dean.  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Crowley chuckled.  He glanced around the war room disinterestedly, but was clearly taking everything in despite having been there before. </p><p>More times than was normal.</p><p>Sam came and stood next to Dean, looking far calmer than Dean felt. </p><p>“So, where is the little dove?” Crowley asked, looking between the brothers.  “Who’s net has he gotten himself tangled in this time?”</p><p>Dean felt his hackles rise at the implication.  Cas wasn’t a delicate little dove with delicate little wings.  He was a brick shithouse that could weather any storm heaven, hell, or anything in between could throw at him.  He was a soldier.  He was a <em>warrior</em>.  And he would get through this.</p><p>He clenched his teeth and his fists until his nails bit in to his palms. </p><p>“He’s resting and you won’t be talking to him.  We called you to see if you had any information on a spell.”</p><p>He motioned for Crowley to follow him to the library, Sam following behind to make sure Crowley didn’t do anything…Crowley-like.</p><p>He plucked the book with the binding spell from the sea of papers and other books littering the table and handed it to Crowley.  As the demon read further and further down the page, his bushy but impeccably groomed eyebrows climbed higher and higher.</p><p>When he finished, he tossed the book back down on the table, still open, and looked between the brothers with a small smile. </p><p>“Well, if you think it was one of mine that put this especially nasty whammy on your angel, you’re wrong.  We don’t use this particular brand of…shackle.” He glanced at the book with distaste.  “The Vikings were barbarians.  I mean, they knew how to throw a damn good party, but beyond that,” Crowley shook his head.  “No class.  No fineness.  No desire for the finer…arts.” He smirked again.  “They just like to smash and burn and pillage.  Boring-“</p><p>“We don’t need to know who put it on him, we want to know how to take it <em>off</em>,” Sam interrupted before Dean could.</p><p>Honestly, Crowley would prattle on forever if someone didn’t stop him.</p><p>“Have you heard of it?  Know anything about it? At all?” Dean prompted.  He glanced towards the dormitory again, a movement Crowley followed closely.</p><p>“You…<em>don’t</em> want to know who barbarically enslaved your angel?” Crowley looked between them and, judging by the budding look of disbelieving realisation, he could see through their poor attempts to hide their guilt.</p><p>“My god…<em>you</em> bound him?”  Crowley looked unsettlingly appalled but it was hard to tell if that was just a show to make them feel even worse about it than they already did.</p><p>“It’s…it’s a long story, just,” Dean growled, reining in his temper once more when he saw Sam shake his head from the corner of his eye. “Can you tell us anything about it?” He ground out as politely as he could manage.</p><p>Crowley rolled his eyes, “You three are the most dysfunctional family I’ve ever met outside my own.”  He cast a perturbed look between the brothers and pulled up a chair, starting to read over the passage again.</p><p>His finger traced the Old Norse words as he read aloud.</p><p>“<em>Bind this heavenly light</em></p><p>
  <em>Bind this heavenly mind</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bind this heavenly power</em>
</p><p><em>And place the Divine in my hand</em>”</p><p>Crowley stared up at them, nonplused.  “Basically, you slapped a collar on him.  A collar lined with rusty nails because neither you nor these idiot Vikings knew what they were doing.  And while I’ve never <em>personally</em> seen this particular binding in action before, I’ve heard first hand accounts.  The two or three times it was used was hilariously unsuccessful.”  He grinned, “They <em>hoped</em> they’d be able to order the angels to do the heavy lifting in battle.  Smite their enemies, burn villages with a blink, etc, etc.  And they <em>sort of</em> succeeded, but as you well know, spell work of this level is a tricky business.  You have to be <em>very</em> careful with your chosen words <em>and</em> the intent behind them.  Moose, pour us a scotch, would you?  The good stuff, I know you have it because I left it here last time so I wouldn’t  have to drink that swill you two keep lying around.”</p><p>Crowley flashed them a grin.  Sam scowled but went to the kitchen and returned a moment later with three glasses and a very old looking bottle.  Apparently, this discussion was heavy enough to break the no booze rule. </p><p>Dean wasn’t complaining.</p><p>Once Sam and Dean sat down and they’d all taken generous sips, Crowley continued, leaning back in his chair as if right at home.</p><p>“Anyway, rumor has it they managed to get the actual <em>binding</em> part of their spell, really, <em>really</em> effective.  To the point where it instantly crushed the first angel violently enough that it drove the poor thing mad and it burst – quite literally – from its vessel in an attempt to escape.  Then it, understandably, burned the eyes out of every person within a fifty-mile radius.”  He paused for another drink, smacking his lips appreciatively.</p><p>Dean winced, looking into his glass, “Cas said it feels like he’s being crushed.”</p><p>“Indeed…well, after <em>that</em> little incident they decided they needed to tweak the formula a bit and bravely, stupidly, tried again.  Their second go went a little better.  Or so I was told.  They managed to summon and bind the angel without <em>too</em> many casualties.  They smashed their way through a few battles with their feathered hammer and after that there was only the rumor of one more attempt to tweak the spell.  As far as I know, they more or less left it at the version you have here.  So tell me, is your pet angel being even more obedient the usual?”</p><p>“Crowley,” Dean growled in warning, feeling the scotch roll in his stomach.</p><p>Needless to say, it was a sore topic and he didn’t want Crowley knowing any more about the situation than was absolutely necessary.</p><p>“Alright well, at least that confirms what we guessed earlier.”  Sam was slumped back in his chair and it made Dean sit up straighter.</p><p>Since when had they gotten comfortable enough to slouch around the table while drinking with the King of Hell?</p><p>Sam continued, “How did the captive angels use their grace to take out opposing armies, though? Cas nearly tore through his own chest with his bare hands because he can’t touch it or reach it or…however it is that angels use their grace.  It <em>immediately</em> drove him into a frenzy.”</p><p>Dean tossed back the rest of his drink.</p><p>Crowley sighed, “I assume the spell caster simply ordered them to use their grace to wipe out their enemies, which would mean that was the <em>only</em> thing they could use their grace for.  As for it sending poor little Cas into a frenzy, well...there really is no comparison that will make you understand just what grace is as a human, the best I can do is this: Grace is an angel’s lifeforce.  Imagine, if you can, a scenario where someone has wrapped up your lungs with burning hot, rusty, barbed-wire – in this case, our binding spell – and tied it so tight you can’t breathe.  Now, an angel not being able to access their grace doesn’t <em>kill</em> them, but it’s just as painful and maddening as a human not being able to breathe.  The real dirty part is, instead of dying, for an angel, the agony goes on and on.  Imagine not being able to breathe but never dying.”</p><p>Dean briefly wondered why Crowley knew so much about binding spells for angels but decided he didn’t want to know.</p><p>“So then why doesn’t the release spell work?”  Sam asked, making a vague gesture towards the book.</p><p>Crowley glanced down at it, presumably looking at the two lines beneath the spell.  “What, this?  That’s not a release spell.  It loosely translates to ‘End this heavenly light’. I assume it was a half-assed attempt to kill the angel once they were done with it, since I doubt they would have known about angel blades let alone had access to any.  That being said, I’ve never heard anything about them successfully disposing of an angel.  It was always the other way around.”</p><p>Dean’s stomach surged into his throat. </p><p>Crowley chuckled, “Let me guess, you slapped this binding on your angel without realizing what it would do and then desperately repeated a spell meant to kill him over and over to try and release him.”</p><p>Dean rested his elbows on his knees and took a few steadying breaths. </p><p>He’d repeated that phrase in Old Norse nearly ten times while Cas was convulsing on the floor.</p><p>He tried to rein in a sudden flash of anger towards Sam, who had seemed so confident that he had translated both the words and the meaning accurately.  He could not blame Sam.  They had both done this.  They were both trying to fix it.  Cas had been about to kill them all, they hadn’t had a choice. </p><p>When he straightened himself again, Sam’s eyes were glassy and downcast and Dean’s anger drained away.</p><p>“We’ll fix it, Sam.”</p><p>Sam nodded.</p><p>Crowley cleared his throat, dragging both brothers’ attention back to him.  “If you don’t mind my asking, why the hell did you bind him in the first place?”</p><p>Given that they were asking the guy for help, Dean supposed he deserved a little bit of back story.  If only as a gesture of goodwill.</p><p>“He, uh…he was gonna bring the bunker down.  Looked like he might have brought a good chunk of the state with it.  He didn’t know where he was, didn’t even see us standing there till it was too late.  He tried to stop but…”  Dean shrugged.  “We couldn’t even get close to him.  It felt like my skin was gonna melt off if I got any closer.”</p><p>He would have tried anything else first.  He would have tackled Cas to the floor, tried to snap him out of it with a slap to the face…<em>something</em>.  But the searing heat whipping around the room in a rage had kept him from getting close enough to do anything like that.  It had felt like he was standing in a sandstorm in the hottest desert.  It had peeled the paint off the walls and for a few days after, both Sam and Dean’s skin had been raw and pink, like they’d gotten a bad sunburn.</p><p>Then Cas’ grace had flooded his eyes and all they could see of him was a vaguely human-shaped cluster of light.  All they could hear was a savage battle-cry that sounded like galaxies colliding.  It had left both of their ears ringing for hours and hours after it was over.</p><p>The worst part was the moment Cas realized where he was and what had happened.  The roar of imminent annihilation had stopped, but, in its place, something terrifying and indescribable had replaced it.  It had sounded like the ringing of a thousand brass instruments all working together to blast a complicated harmony of noise; it had been simultaneously beautiful and bone chilling.</p><p>It had been a warning, Dean was sure of it, and if light could sing with all the colors of a prism, it might come close to describing what Dean was convinced had been Castiel’s real voice. </p><p>His fight or flight had kicked in then, and he’d used the binding spell as a last resort.</p><p>“So,” Crowley said, pulling Dean back to the present, “knowing that a lot of spell work relies on the <em>intention</em> behind the spell…I’m sure you can imagine what your little lizard brain’s intention was in that moment.”  Crowley calmly prompted him. “That, more than second hand stories, will tell you how the binding is likely affecting your angel.”</p><p>Dean closed his eyes, thinking back to the terror he’d felt in that moment.  “I just wanted to…stop him.  To get him under control.”</p><p>“And if I know Feathers like I think I do, he’ll be fighting that tooth and claw all the way to the bitter end.”  He stared Dean down silently for a moment.  “It will get worse.  The longer he fights it the harder the spell will work to force him into submission.  And he <em>will</em> submit eventually.  The spell is shockingly effective despite its crudeness.”</p><p>Dean grimaced, not caring for Crowley’s choice of words.  A spell of that design, it was hard not to picture the ways it had likely been abused.  He tried to convince himself that, at the very least, Vikings had been known for their honor.  He tried to convince himself they wouldn’t have done anything like <em>that</em> to a holy creature.</p><p>No one said anything for several long moments. </p><p>Crowley twirled his glass on the table.  “What else is wrong with him?”</p><p>The brothers shared a look and, despite the fact that Dean wanted to tell the guy to mind his business…he didn’t.</p><p>“We’re not…entirely sure.  He uh, he won’t tell us.  Or doesn’t know how to tell us.”</p><p>Crowley was looking from one brother to the other through narrowed eyes, “You two idiots have been BFFs with an angel for what now? Ten years?  And you don’t know a damn thing about the species, do you?”  He shook his head.</p><p>“It’s not for lack of trying!” Dean exclaimed defensively.</p><p>Crowley leveled his most unimpressed stare upon him. </p><p>“We’re trying,” Sam amended.  Because they really hadn’t tried before now.</p><p>“Which seems to be working grand.” Crowley sighed, “Alright, <em>fine</em>.  I happen to have under my employ, someone who speaks Old Norse fluently <em>and</em> it’s actually his first language.  He <em>was</em> a Viking, back in the day.  Though, I suppose he’s a sort of Viking now,” Crowley chuckled, scratching his beard absently.  “Anyway, he may be able to help you create a counter spell to unclip those wings.  Of course,” here a slow grin spread across his face, “It’ll cost you.”</p><p>“What do you want?” Dean asked, uninterested in playing games.  The clock on the wall was ticking louder and louder, reminding him that at any moment Cas could come walking into the library.</p><p>Crowley drained the rest of his own drink and then looked up, his dark eyes glittering like glass shards.</p><p>“Just a few feathers.”</p><p>Dean frowned, not understanding, until he looked over at Sam and saw his brother’s face torn between outrage and anger. </p><p>Then it clicked.</p><p>He stood, chair skittering across the floor, towering over Crowley, who’s hands flew up in a sign of peace. </p><p>“Alright, alright, I’ll sweeten the deal!  I’ll send over the Viking <em>and</em> give you the number of an angel expert in exchange for just three<em>, measly</em>, little, feathers.”</p><p>“We’re not giving you Cas’ feathers like he’s some kind of…”  Sam cut himself off, looking angrier than Dean had seen him in a long time.  He was visibly holding himself in check, but only just, teeth half bared in a snarl like a wolf protecting its cub.</p><p>It would have been heart-warming in a less awful situation.</p><p>“Now just listen,” Crowley said soothingly.  “My angel guy has dedicated his considerably long life to studying angels.  He’s written books on them, spent time with them.  Even rehabilitated a few…which sounds like a skill you may be particularly interested in. He’s,” here he paused to roll his eyes, “<em>A good man</em>.  Incredibly intelligent and weirdly fascinated by religion, but he took a shinning to angels in particular.  And I bet, after all this time, he’s the only one who could teach you how to effectively communicate with the winged morons.”</p><p>Dean was frozen by his chair.  He looked at Sam, who looked at him.</p><p>“What do you want the feathers for?” Sam asked coolly.</p><p>For a moment, Crowley stared at him, as if weighing the pros and cons of actually telling them, before grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  “If I told you, you wouldn’t give them to me.”</p><p>Before Dean could respond, Sam barked, “No deal,” and turned on his heal towards the dormitories.</p><p>Dean hesitated, watching his brother leave, before following.  Sam didn’t get to make that kind of call on his own.</p><p>“Alright then,” Crowley called after them.  “I’m sure you won’t have any problem asking your angel what he needs to heal up and he’ll have no problem telling you.  It’s not as if angels communicate with each other entirely non-verbally and using <em>words</em> to communicate is something Castiel had probably only done a handful of times before he met you two.”</p><p>The brothers both turned slowly.  Crowley was standing next to his empty glass, readjusting his tie and suit jacket, before looking up and offering them a polite smile.</p><p>“How do we know that isn’t a lie?”  Dean demanded.</p><p>But Crowley merely leveled a deadpanned stare upon them.  “You’ve known Castiel for ten years and you think I’m lying about how difficult it is to talk to angels?”</p><p>“…fair enough.  Then how do you know that?”</p><p>Crowley smiled sweetly.  “Know thine enemy, dear.  So…do we have a deal?”</p><p>The brothers shared another silent look and then Sam tossed his head in the direction of the kitchen, so Dean told Crowley to pour himself another drink while they went and talked things over.</p><p>“I don’t like this,” Sam announced, folding his arms across his chest and looking even more uncomfortable than he had in Crowley’s presence.</p><p>Dean sank in to a chair at the table, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  “Well, I don’t either, but…” he shrugged.  What else were they supposed to do?  “What if what Crowley said is true?  What if we’ll never be able to really get through to him?  What if that binding is slowly driving him crazy?  What then?  You saw what happened to him earlier!  He just froze up like a marble statue until I <em>ordered</em> him to move. And how much time do we even have?  He was already pretty messed up before I put that fucking spell on him, I don’t think he’s got much fight left in him, Sam!”</p><p>Sam licked his lips, still looking pale with an emotion Dean couldn’t quite place.  He licked his lips again, seeming to struggle getting his next words out, like just saying them was nearly making him gag.</p><p>“Dean…ripping out an angel’s feathers?  And giving them over to a <em>demon</em>?  We can’t…<em>I</em> can’t…<em>do</em> that to Cas.”</p><p>Sam looked like he was going to be sick and Dean felt his own stomach drop heavily in response.  Sam was right.  There was something very wrong about the thought.  Something dirty and vile about the idea of taking something from a creature made of light and giving it to one made a darkness.</p><p>“Yeah…yeah, you’re right.  That’s gotta be some serious level of blasphemy or something.”  Dean sighed, feeling like their only hope for getting Cas help was slipping through their fingers already.</p><p>“More like sacrilege,” Sam corrected, swallowing.  “It would be an absolute violation of a…a sacred being.  It’d be no different then what Metatron did to him, Dean.”</p><p><em>That</em> had tears needling at Dean’s eyes and he gruffly cleared his throat, willing his stomach to just <em>chill</em> already.  Sam was right.</p><p>But what else were they supposed to do?</p><p>“Maybe we should ask him,” Dean suggested half-heartedly.  “Maybe – maybe feathers are to angels what hair is to humans.  Maybe its no big deal.”</p><p>Sam stared at him.  “I know you don’t actually believe that.  After we saw how getting his wings restored <em>broke</em> him?  The way he obviously finds comfort in them?  The way he uses them as a shield when he’s scared?  Dean –“</p><p>“I know!  I <em>know</em>, Sam, but what are our other options here?!  What if this spell drives him insane?!  What if it kills him?!”</p><p>Sam shook his head, looking just as helpless as Dean felt.  “We <em>have</em> to talk to Cas.  We can’t keep making life or death decisions for each other!”</p><p>“But –“ Dean started without knowing what he wanted to say.  This didn’t feel like it should even <em>be</em> a choice.  They couldn’t let Cas die.  And certainly not like this.  Suffering, in agony, while the free will he’d worked so hard to save and understand and use was slowly peeled away?</p><p><em>What</em> <em>choice</em>?! he wanted to yell.  If it came to trusting Crowley or letting Cas suffer and die, then there was <em>only</em> one choice. </p><p>Dean had lived without Cas, he knew what that was like.  And now, after everything, after starting down the path to heal their little family, losing him wasn’t an option.</p><p>It just wasn’t.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They told Crowley to go home.  Told him they’d call him if they decided to take his offer.  He looked surprised, as if he hadn’t considered the Winchesters might <em>not</em> do anything to save their angel as soon as a solution was offered to them.</p><p>He didn’t leave right away, looking between the brothers as if giving them the chance to come to their usual Winchester senses…or lack thereof.  But after several long seconds, Crowley finally said, “Fine.  When things get worse and you get desperate, give me a call.  But I can’t promise the offer won’t have changed.  <em>However</em>, to show you I am a man of my word, I’ll give you a bit of advice.  On the house.”  He paused, seemingly for dramatic effect, “You may want to consider digging out your holy fire glasses.”</p><p>With a last, unreadable, glance at both of them he turned on his heel and ascended the iron stairs.</p><p>The <em>clang</em> of the door closing left a heavy silence in its wake.</p><p>They retreated to the library slowly, each of them thinking over the option Crowley had given them, neither of them happy about it. </p><p>A part of Dean was still hoping the three feathers were going to turn out to be no big deal.  Another part of Dean was scoffing, because if that were true then Crowley wouldn’t have offered such a juicy deal in return. </p><p>
  <em>Just three, measly, little feathers.   </em>
</p><p>Just three.  In exchange for Cas’ freedom and sanity. </p><p>
  <em>No big deal, my ass.</em>
</p><p>Of course, they couldn’t do much of anything without talking to Cas first, even though Dean was itching to just make the call himself and get the process started because this binding seemed to be racing against them.  He felt like they were running out of time.  Sure, it might not kill the angel, but Dean felt like an image of Cas’ future trapped in that binding was starting to take shape in front of them and couldn’t help but wonder.  But he knew Cas well enough to know that he would prefer death over captivity.</p><p>Dean would choose the same.</p><p>And they may have found a way to take the edge off for now with that sigil, but this binding was still agony, both mental and physical.  Cas was being tortured every minute of every day.  Whether it was the feeling of being crushed and controlled or the horrific ordeal of feeling his grace being stolen over and over again.  By waiting, by thinking things through, they were wasting time.  They were forcing Cas to endure more torture every minute they spent <em>not</em> <em>acting</em>.</p><p>Dean cracked his knuckles, biting the inside of his cheek.  He felt like there was an enemy right in front of him and a gun on a gleaming pedestal by his hand.  But he wasn’t allowed to touch it.</p><p>One some level he knew Sam was right.  He knew they had to talk to Cas about this first.  He knew they couldn’t keep making life or death decisions and cutting deals to save each other.  They were trying to understand Cas better, they were trying to be better to him and each other, and that meant accepting that they all had different values and beliefs and placed importance on different things.</p><p>Maybe letting a couple humans rip out his feathers and give them to a demon was so vile and unfathomable to an angel that they would literally rather die.</p><p>Dean’s chest seized at the thought of Cas choosing to die over choosing to fight.  He wanted to think that that was something he didn’t have to worry about, but…</p><p><em>I’m afraid I might kill myself</em>. </p><p>Of course, he <em>did</em> worry about that and he was starting to worry about it more with each passing day.</p><p>Glancing at Sam – he’d never told his brother about that particular conversation with Cas – he decided not to heap another weight on to his already drooping shoulders.  Not yet.  Dean was sure he was just over-reacting anyway.  That conversation had taken place so long ago and Cas had never mentioned it again.</p><p>He sat across from Sam at their designated research table and Dean shook away the memory of sitting across from Cas on a shitty motel bed.  He needed to focus.  They had a lot to discuss before they talked to Cas and they weren’t going to wake him just yet.  If he was unconscious, at least he wasn’t in pain.</p><p>Dean made an effort to refocus on the task at hand, which was much easier now that Crowley was at least out of their house.  He still couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought twice about just inviting the guy over and wasn’t sure if that said more about his relationship with Cas or with Crowley.  He hated both implications.</p><p>He refilled his glass with Crowley’s froofy scotch, daring Sam to say something about it with a cutting look.  Surprisingly, though, Sam refilled his own as well. </p><p>“Just this once,” his brother warned.</p><p>After taking a fortifying swig, Dean pulled a stray notebook and pen over, flipping it to a clean page.</p><p>“Alright,” he said, heaving a great sigh and shaking his head to dislodge the blanket of fatigue trying to smother him.  “Time for a good, old-fashioned, pros and cons list.  Can’t go wrong with that.  So, what are the pros for taking Crowley’s deal?  One, we get the Viking guy and break the spell.”</p><p>“<em>Maybe</em> break the spell,” Sam corrected like the kill-joy he was.  “But, yeah, if we’re going to break it, that’ll be the only way it’s gonna happen.  At the very least, we get an ‘angel expert’.  Whatever that means.  But it sounds like he’d be able to help us communicate with Cas better.  And learn about angels in general, outside of what we already know.”</p><p>“Crowley said he’d rehabbed a few too.  Maybe he’d be able to help Cas, you know, get better.  Since we’re not turning out to be super great at it.”</p><p>Sam opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but then conceded with a nod that Dean was right.  They were trying and in time he thinks they would be able to learn how to be what Cas needs them to be and communicate how Cas needs them to communicate.  But Dean was sure that Sam was also feeling like Cas just didn’t have the time it was going to take for them to learn. </p><p>The silence stretched between them and, after a few moments where neither could think of another pro to add to the list, Dean cleared his throat and moved his pen over.</p><p>“Ok cons.  One, Crowley is an evil dirtbag and might be lying about all of this.”</p><p>Sam gave him a sidelong look.  “Is it bad that I kinda actually trust him a little?  At least, I don’t think he’s lying about what he told us.”</p><p>Sighing, Dean scratched his first con off the list.  “Yeah, me too.  Hate that guy.  Ok, <em>real</em> con, we have to give Crowley three of Cas’ feathers and he might do something really evil or gross with them.”</p><p>“Two, doing that to Cas, even if he agrees to it, would probably re-traumatize him.”</p><p>Dean rolled his lip between his teeth, staring at the notebook.  “And if he does agree to it, how do we know its not just because he’s not thinking straight?  Or just saying yes to make us happy?  Consent under duress isn’t consent.”</p><p>Sam looked at him sharply.</p><p>Dean scowled.  “What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Sam answered, too quickly, “I’m just…still surprised you read all the links I forward to you.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>Sam blinked and ran a hand through his hair, his nervous tic, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.  “It just catches me off guard sometimes, hearing you talk like that.  And I don’t mean that in a bad way!” Sam rushed to explain upon seeing Dean’s glower deepen.  “I’m sorry, it’s just…we’ve been dancing around serious topics our whole lives and it’s still kind of weird to acknowledge things like trauma, and consent, and emotions, and all this shit with <em>actual</em> words.  It’s just…gonna take some getting used to, that’s all.  But it’s <em>good</em>.  It’s really good, Dean.”</p><p>With a careful breath, Dean de-puffed his chest and loosened his grip on the pen.  For a moment, he’d thought Sam was implying something <em>else</em> with that look of surprise and he had been ready to correct his brother <em>harshly</em>.  He was glad he’d misunderstood.</p><p>“Alright then.  Con three, we’d have to work with Crowley again.  And talk to him again.  And see him again.”</p><p>Rubbing the palms of his – probably sweaty – hands on his jeans, Sam had the expression of someone who had very narrowly escaped something.  He cleared his throat. “Four, the actual act of removing the feathers will probably be traumatising to all of us.”</p><p>Grimacing, Dean added it to the list.  He hadn’t thought of that and refused to think of it now. </p><p>When neither of them could think of any more cons, Dean leaned back in his chair to summarize.</p><p>“Ok, pros of agreeing to Crowley’s deal, assuming everything goes well, are: we get that goddamn binding off Cas, we learn how to communicate with him better, learn more about his species, and get an angel therapist to help him deal with the horrific trauma that being our friend has caused him.”</p><p>Sam rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Cons of agreeing to Crowley’s deal are: we have to give him three of Cas’ feathers, the process of which will probably leave all of us scarred for life, and there’s no way to know if Cas is <em>actually</em> consenting to it or not.  Also, Crowley is definitely going to do something terrible with them.  Oh, and by the way, just the <em>idea</em> of going through with this exchange makes me feel like I need to take a bath in holy fire.”  He tossed the notebook back on the table.  “We could always agree to it and then just not give him the feathers after.” </p><p>Dean already knew that wasn’t an option but felt compelled to say it anyway.  They’d done that to Crowley before – too many times to be fair – and he didn’t think they’d get away with it again.  Besides, Crowley knew where Cas was <em>and</em> knew that he was vulnerable – though thankfully didn’t know just <em>how</em> vulnerable.  Dean was almost certain that if they tried to cheat Crowley on this deal he would absolutely retaliate and Cas would be the one to suffer.</p><p>A withering look from Sam confirmed he was thinking along the same vein.  “We have to talk to Cas.  We can’t make this decision without him.”</p><p>As much as he hated it, Dean already knew that.  They would have to wait for Cas to wake up and then somehow find the strength to say the words <em>‘in exchange for three of your feathers’</em> out loud.</p><p>Then a thought occurred to him.  “Wait, why don’t we just find someone online who speaks old Norse?  There’s probably a ton of history nerds out there that can read, write, and translate it perfectly.”</p><p>Sam shook his head.  “Where do you think I learned it from?  Even the most dedicated enthusiasts and PhDs can only learn based on the clues that survived into this century, which aren’t a lot.  I <em>really</em> did my research on that binding translation, Dean.  I studied the work and methods of the best of the best and I still got it wrong.  The only way we’re going to create an accurate and functional release spell is with someone who spoke old Norse fluently <em>and</em> spoke it in the context of the time period this binding was created.”</p><p>Dean sighed, feeling like he was about a hundred and forty years old instead of just forty.  Or forty-one.  However old he was now.</p><p>A glance at the nearest clock told him part of the reason he may feel so old was that it was nearly two in the morning.  He sighed again, looking out over the swamp of books that had taken over the table.  There was nothing else to be done until they could speak to Cas, and neither of them was willing to force the angel back in to the waking world before they had to. </p><p>“Alright, I’m going to bed.  We can pick this up with Cas in the morning.”</p><p>Sam nodded and they both stood.</p><p>Out of habit, Dean reached for his glass, still full of scotch, but froze halfway there.</p><p>He’d already had one.  What if Cas needed them in the middle of the night?  What if he called for help and Dean didn’t wake up because he’d had <em>just</em> enough to drink to keep Cas’ voice from reaching him?</p><p>He pulled his hand back and left the glass sitting there next to Sam’s and both of them retreated to their rooms.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He was up bright and early the next morning.  Well, not so much bright, it was still dark out, but he was still elbow deep in a box of junk he had cleaned out of the Impala’s trunk months ago, when normal things like tidying and organization had mattered.</p><p>He found them at the bottom of the box, under a rusty wrench and a half empty jug of oil, and carefully extracted them.</p><p>One of the lenses was scratched, but when he put them on, it was barely noticeable.  All in all, they were in good shape considering they had been banging around in the trunk for like eight years.</p><p>He looked around the garage, belatedly wondering what he should do if the glasses were to reveal something to him <em>here</em>.  He hadn’t thought of that and his stomach twinged with a spike of anxiety.  Would the glasses show him something in the bunker?  Something that had perhaps been lurking in their home without their knowledge this whole time?</p><p>Helpfully, his brain reminded him that the last time he had worn these, he’d been looking at hell hounds.</p><p>He swallowed down the memory – and the icy shards it lodged in his throat – and turned in a circle, taking in every corner of the massive garage and seeing nothing.  The knot in his stomach loosened, and he took a deep breath, feeling as if he both was and was not over-reacting.  Some freaky shit had gone down in this bunker and, in hindsight, having a look around the place now and then with some holy fire specs wasn’t a bad idea.  He was reluctantly glad that Crowley had mentioned them.</p><p>The demon’s cryptic advice the night before had left Dean tossing and turning, unable to think of anything but the glasses he had so carelessly tossed in a box of junk.  He would have never thought to use them with Cas and wasn’t sure what they could possibly reveal to him, or if he’d be able to do anything with what they <em>did</em> show him.  But any lead was worth following at this point, even if he did feel ridiculous.  Honestly, they could have at least picked some frames that were a little more low-key than these.  He looked like one of those hipsters he saw in coffee shops.</p><p>Shelving his pride, Dean left the garage and headed for Cas’ room.  It would soon be time to redraw the sigil.  They got roughly twenty-four hours out of each one but it felt like a week ago that he’d had to carve the last one into Cas’ chest, trying to keep his hand steady while the angel gasped and clutched at Sam’s shirt and tried not to let it show how much it was hurting him.  But it hadn’t been a week ago, it had only been yesterday, and Dean didn’t want that critical point to pass by again.  He didn’t want to ever have to see Cas being <em>forced</em> into submission.  Being forced to <em>let them cut him</em> with his own knife despite how desperately he wanted to fight them off.</p><p>Cas had every right to not want them to even touch his blade, and now he was being magically forced to allow it.  Being magically forced to lay down and let himself be filleted.  Dean could see it in his glowing eyes, the rawness of Cas’ gaze, the desire to attack, to <em>take it back</em>, to <em>fight</em> them.</p><p>And he was being physically restrained from doing so.</p><p>They had tied him down, Dean realized.</p><p>
  <em>Let me go…</em>
</p><p>They had tied him down just like Metatron had.  They were cutting him open, taking his grace away, just like Metatron had.  And what’s worse, they had taken his free will away too.</p><p>Dean turned abruptly, bending and bracing his hands on his knees over the small garbage can by the door leading out of the garage while his stomach threatened to eject its contents.</p><p>After a full minute, he righted himself, and wiped the sweat off his forehead, hands shaking and Cas’ pleas echoing in the forefront of his mind.</p><p>
  <em>Please…please, Dean, let me go, I’ll stop…I’ll stop, please…let me go…</em>
</p><p>Cas had sounded near delirious in his panic.  His fear had been raw and primal in a way Dean had never heard.  In a way that, up until now, he had assumed the angel wasn’t capable of feeling.</p><p>The same kind of terror he’d likely felt being restrained by Metatron, helpless, able only to <em>watch </em>the blade coming to wards his throat, able only to <em>feel</em> his body being cut open, able only to <em>endure</em> his grace being stolen.  And able to do <em>nothing at all</em> to stop it from happening.</p><p>And now he was living that same terrifying moment over and over, in the place where Dean wanted him to feel safe, with the people Dean wanted him to trust.</p><p>Dean felt so <em>stupid</em>.  And utterly, utterly, helpless, once again feeling as if this task was just too massive for them to take on.  He felt like an ant at the base of Mount Everest, staring up and trying to figure out how to reach the summit.</p><p>The old clock on the wall over the workbench was suddenly obnoxiously loud.  The <em>tic tic tic</em> sounding like a threat.</p><p>How much more could Cas endure?</p><p>Dean swallowed, making sure whatever his stomach was thinking about tossing overboard stayed down, and wrenched the door open.</p><p>He knew they were doing the best they could with the hand they had at the moment.  Cas was resting in a proper resting place, Dean had set timers on his watch to make sure the binding wouldn’t have another chance to wake again, they had a potential plan in place and were going to talk to Cas about it.  And, Dean thought hopefully, he may just get something good out of these glasses.</p><p>The hallways were deserted but that was normal for barely six o’clock in the morning.  Sam wasn’t up yet but, to be fair, they had only gone to bed a few hours ago.  Dean had made an effort to get some sleep, but he just couldn’t; not with the tantalising little hint Crowley had dangled before him before disappearing without even a hint of an explanation. Friggin’ drama queen.</p><p>He eased Cas’ bedroom door open and stepped into the dark room. </p><p>He paused when the smell of something he couldn’t quite place tickled under his nose.  The first image it coaxed into Dean’s mind was rain water.  Clean, cool and just…humid?  Refreshing?</p><p>Ozone, he realized.  It smelled like ozone.  Like a thunderstorm had just passed in this room alone.  He wondered why he never noticed it before.</p><p>Shaking his head – of <em>course</em> Cas smelled like a passing thunderstorm – he blinked through the dark, trying to make his human eyes see through it.  He’d almost expected to be able to see Cas glowing like he was radioactive or something.  Or see extra limbs or…<em>something</em>.  But he couldn’t see anything.</p><p>Pulling out his phone and turning the flashlight on, he aimed the beam of light towards where he knew Cas’ nest was.</p><p>He squinted without moving closer, unwilling to wake the angel.  Celestial beings with their celestial hearing were, sensibly, very light sleepers.  That is when they slept at all. </p><p>But Cas was snuggled down deep in the mounds of blankets and pillows and towels and all Dean could see of him was the curve of one wing.  His feathers were fluffed up, like Dean had seen the little songbirds outside do when it started getting chilly out.  The sight made something warm blossom in Dean’s chest like a delicate flower.  Without thinking, he took a moment to relish the feeling and hold on to it.  The last week had been full of so many dry heaves and anxiety attacks and horrific revelations that something this sweet was like stumbling upon an oasis in the desert.</p><p>So he drank it in.</p><p>Cas looked comfortable and warm and safe in his nest.  The nest that Dean had made for him, he thought with a twinge of pride.  Dean had made him this comfortable thing and Cas was using it!  The one wing he could see was rising and falling with every breath Cas took, the blue and white feathers fluffier than Dean would have thought possible.  He’d only seen Cas’ wings when the angel was awake, and they were always sleek, the feathers all laying flat, the lines all clean.</p><p>He took a couple steps closer, taking a moment longer to observe the sleeping angel, before he started to feel like a creep.  Hadn’t he gotten mad at Cas for doing this exact same thing before?</p><p>Having been staring more than long enough, Dean conceded that he could see nothing out of the ordinary about the wing.  Besides the fact that it was a giant wing attached to the empty human shell his angel friend was inhabiting.</p><p>So, nothing out of the ordinary for <em>them</em>.</p><p>He frowned, a little disappointed.  He’d hoped Crowley’s cryptic advice would have turned up something more interesting or helpful.</p><p>For a moment longer, Dean watched Cas’ fluffy wing rise and fall, thinking that it was probably pretty damn cozy to be wrapped up in there, before he crept from the room and softly closed the door behind him.</p><p>With a sigh, he removed the holy fire glasses and slid them in to the chest pocket of his shirt, heading for the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. </p><p>If he was gonna be up at the ass-crack of dawn, he might as well do something useful.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Fall was coming, Dean remarked absently, kicking a few dead leaves under his feet.  Above his head, here and there, leaves were starting to let go, fluttering to the ground and creating a patchwork of yellow and orange spots, looking like a moth-eaten blanket covering the dirt road that lead to the bunker.</p><p>It was quiet save for the wind gently brushing through the tree tops, softly urging more leaves to fall, but the air on Dean’s face and hands was cool and held the promise of a harsh winter.  Under his feet, wet dirt and decaying leaves crunched under his boots, filling his nostrils and conjuring images of snow dusted ground.</p><p>Closing his eyes, Dean took a deep breath, pulling all the different smells from the air around him and the earth under him into his lungs and holding them there.  Then, with an explosive whoosh, he expelled the air from his lungs, imagining all the things that were weighing him down sailing away from him on it’s current and scattering in the breeze, never to be seen again.</p><p>He repeated the process a second time, and then a third and fourth.  Finally, he readjusted his shoulders, straightening where he had begun to slouch because, he realized, he actually felt a little more relaxed now.</p><p>He shifted his focus, still aware of the smells swirling under his nose and wrapping both hands around his mug of coffee.  It made his palms hot while the backs of his hands stayed cold from the fall breeze. </p><p>He took a sip, paying attention to how the muscles in his arm, hand, and mouth moved to make the action possible.  The drink warmed him from the inside, and he closed his eyes again, letting the feeling swell, listening to the wind in the trees, smelling the dirt and the wood and the crisp air.</p><p>And just breathed.</p><p>This wasn’t so bad, he reasoned.  If this was all meditation had to be then he could totally get on board with it.  He’d always thought people who obsessed over it were a bit…something left of center.  But this was alright.  In fact, it was…kinda nice, even.</p><p>He took another sip of coffee.</p><p>It was still early and Sam still wasn’t up.  While he’d been leaning against the counter, impatiently waiting for his coffee to brew, Dean had dipped in to his inbox, desperate to be working towards <em>something</em> that might be helpful.  The thought of just being idle with everything that was going on made him anxious.  So, he scrolled through the list of articles he had yet to read and the one on mindfulness was one he had been putting off since Sam sent it to him.</p><p>Since this whole endeavour was about breaking old habits and opinions, it seemed only fitting that he should try one of the things that made him roll his eyes the hardest.  Now he was kicking himself for being such a snooty douche about it.  If just breathing and paying attention to his body and environment was so helpful on the first try, what could it have done for him if he’d started it ten years ago?</p><p>But, he told himself, at least he had started today instead of tomorrow.</p><p>He’d gone outside, obviously.  He was able to admit to <em>himself</em> that he’d been wrong about this mindfulness stuff, but that didn’t mean he was ready for Sam to catch him out in nature, listening to the wind and smelling the seasons.  Especially after so many years making fun of people who did.</p><p>Not long after Dean finished his coffee and went back inside, Sam got up and, together, they roused Cas as gently as they could, carefully stroking his wing until he stirred and pulled it back, squinting against the dim light of the lamp on the other side of the room.  Sam sat on Cas’ left, Dean on is right while he held Cas’ wrist like it was made of glass, waiting until he was sure Cas was awake and aware enough to understand what they were doing before gently rubbing his thumb on the inside of Cas’ forearm and asking him to manifested his blade.</p><p>For the first time, the brothers actually witnessed it.  The gleaming blade materialised out of Cas’ forearm and rolled in to Dean’s hand and, after a moment to shake off the strangeness of it, Sam placed his large hand on the angel’s shoulder, half for comfort, half to help hold him still while Dean carefully redrew the sigil.  It turned out to be unnecessary, as Cas seemed not to have the energy for anything more than a few reflexive twitches and a wince.</p><p>The grace spilling from the fresh wound was brighter than the lamp and Sam’s face looked pale and drawn, lit from underneath like he was holding a flashlight under his chin.  Sam gave Cas’ shoulder a squeeze, telling him he did great and that it was over for another day.</p><p>Dean wiped the tip of the blade clean on his jeans and carefully pressed the pommel in to Cas’ palm, letting the angel know that it was back in his hand, that he was safe, and watching his long fingers curl around it possessively.</p><p>What kind of strength did it take for Cas to hand that over to him?  Dean felt sure that Cas’ connection to his sword was one he would never be able to understand.  He loved some of his weapons sure, but there was more to it than that when it came to an angel and their sword.</p><p>The brothers sat on either side of the angel, right in the middle of his nest with him, while Cas laid between them and took controlled breaths, while he dragged his hand over his throat like he did every time, seemingly unable to help himself.  They reminded him that he was safe, reminded him to breathe, and waited for the disorientation to recede from his eyes.</p><p>Dean’s heart gave an aching beat and he wished he could let Cas curl up and sleep again until tomorrow.  But time was of the essence and the moment Dean had been dreading had finally arrived.</p><p>Ten minutes later, the three of them were sitting in the kitchen.</p><p>Poor Cas was perched on a stool so that he didn’t have to try and cram his wings in to a normal chair.  Both hands were wrapped around his mug of steaming coffee and he was staring down at the table in front of him with dark circles around his eyes, looking for all the world as if merely keeping them open was taking all the energy he had left in him.</p><p>After sharing a glance with his brother, Dean pushed his own mug aside and decided to grab the conversation by the horns. </p><p>“We talked to Crowley,”  He confessed, seeing Sam tense across the table in anticipation of a scolding.</p><p>But Cas didn’t so much as scowl, he merely blinked a little longer than usual and his wings drooped ever so slightly at his back.</p><p>“And?”</p><p>Dean rubbed his hands together, unnerved by the lack of reaction.  “Well, he offered us a deal.”</p><p>“Shocking.”</p><p>Something that had been tightening in Dean’s chest loosened at the familiar snark and he managed a weak smile.  “He said he has someone who used to be a Viking that could help us with creating a release spell for the binding.”</p><p>Cas tightened his fingers around his mug like he was thinking about lifting it to his mouth, or resisting the urge to crush it, but said nothing.</p><p>“And he has this…other guy.  Uh…kind of like an angel doctor, I guess you could say…”</p><p>Cas' brow furrowed like he was confused.  “Like a Rit Zen?”</p><p>“What – <em>no</em>!  <em>Christ</em>, Cas!”</p><p>The angel rolled his eyes, finally lifting his mug and swallowing a mouthful of coffee.</p><p>Dean took a calming breath, two cups of black coffee rolling in his stomach.  If Cas had thought they were calling in an angel to put him down, Dean would have liked his reaction to be something other than just mild confusion.  As if Cas had merely been curious about how they would have even known a Rit Zen in the first place.</p><p>“More like a psychologist, we think,” Sam finished, his tone carefully even.  </p><p>Cas blinked slowly, very clearly not understanding. “An angel…psychologist.”</p><p>“Yeah, but he’s human,” Sam added.</p><p>Still not understanding but perhaps beyond caring, Cas asked his coffee, “And in return?”</p><p>Dean’s throat suddenly seized.  He couldn’t actually say it out loud.  Luckily, Sam looked as if he physically swallowed whatever was blocking his throat and managed to answer.</p><p>“He wants three of your feathers.”</p><p>The feathers all down the back of Cas’ wings flared up, like the quills on a porcupine and just as dangerous looking.  But a second later they flattened back down just as quickly and Cas cleared his throat, moving his head like he was stretching a kink in his neck.</p><p>The angel had obviously just squashed a flare of rage and any hope that Dean might have had that Cas wouldn’t mind handing over a few feathers was also squashed.</p><p>A few tense moments passed before Cas asked, with carefully controlled calm, “Did he say which three he wanted?”</p><p>The brothers blinked at each other and Dean hesitated.  “Er…no.  Are…are there different…kinds?”</p><p>When Cas aborted another roll of his eyes, the effort behind it was visible. “Yes,” he said instead, drawing out the <em>s</em> and dragging his fingertips across his closed eyes as if to scrub the exhaustion from them.  “Yes, I have different kinds of feathers.”</p><p>“Cas,” Sam shifted in his seat, making Cas open his eyes and glance in his direction. “How big a deal is this?  Please be honest with us, we have no clue about any of this stuff.  What would it mean for you to give your feathers to a demon in exchange for help?”</p><p>Cas seemed to think about it, staring into his cooling coffee mug like it was a crystal ball.  He looked despondent, miserable, and exhausted, which was why it came as such a surprise when he suddenly chuckled.</p><p>“Now?  Probably nothing at all.”</p><p>“Judging by the look on your face, that’s a crock of shit,” Dean declared blandly.  Cas didn’t correct him and still wouldn’t look at either of them.  “C’mon man, I know it’s hard to talk about this shit, but you gotta try.  Would you be fine giving him certain feathers and not others?  He didn’t specify, so if you are, then –“</p><p>“It’s fine, I’ll do it.”</p><p>Dean blinked, sitting up straighter in his chair and hearing warning bells going off in his head.  “Don’t just say that because you think it’s what we want to hear.”  Even though it absolutely <em>was</em> what they wanted to hear.  “Cas, we’re asking what <em>you</em> want to do.  What <em>you</em> need.  Tell us what you want, Cas.”</p><p>Belatedly, Dean realized he’d phrased that as an order and he paled, opening his mouth to take it back, but Cas was already answering.</p><p>“I want it to stop,” he whispered, his shoulders and wings hunching, and he closed his eyes like he’d just admitted a terrible sin.  “Everything hurts <em>all the time</em> and I’m so, <em>so</em> tired.  I want it to stop and I don’t <em>care</em> how that happens.”</p><p>Sam was staring at the table, the fingers of his left hand curled against his mouth, looking as overwhelmed as Dean felt.</p><p>“Ok…” He started, “Ok…so, so we’ll take Crowley’s deal, then.  But I still want to understand –“</p><p>“My tertials,” Cas interrupted, opening his eyes but not raising them from the table.  His wings stiffened at his back.  “He probably wants my tertials.  They contain stores of an angel’s grace and I can’t think of any other reason he would want angel feathers other than spell work.  Tertials have the most power in them.”</p><p>Silence swelled between the three of them but it was Sam, delicate as always, that broke it. </p><p>“How can we remove them so it causes you the least amount of pain?”</p><p>For a moment it seemed as if Cas wasn’t going to answer.  Then, “We won’t be able to remove them.  Neither of you are strong enough to pull them out.  And I…can’t do it myself.  Crowley will have to do it.”</p><p>He looked ill just talking about it, a sentiment Dean was feeling himself. </p><p>“There’s gotta be some way we can –“</p><p>“Tertial feathers are rooted in the bone.  It’s not like pulling out a strand of hair, it’s like ripping off a finger.”</p><p>“….oh.”</p><p>Dean leaned back in his chair, anger flaring quietly behind his ribs, because <em>of course</em>.  When he wiped a hand down his face, his arm nudged the glasses in his pocket and he froze, looking up at Cas.  The angel had eyes only for his coffee and, moving slowly so as not to draw his attention, Dean pulled them from his pocket and put them on as Sam frowned across the table at him.</p><p>“Holy shit!”</p><p>Lifting his head at Dean’s exclamation, Cas blinked at him owlishly through glowing eyes.  But it wasn’t just the normal amount of glowing – that pinprick of grace in the center of each pupil – this looked like his eyeballs had been replaced with lightbulbs.</p><p>Quickly, Dean pulled the glasses down a bit to look over the top of them.  The light vanished, and he found himself staring in to Cas’ normal blue eyes.</p><p>He shoved the glasses back up his nose, ignoring the flare of heat in his cheeks and hoping Sam would do the same.</p><p>Cas’ eyes glowed bright white as he stared at Dean.</p><p>“Holy <em>shit</em>,” he whispered again.</p><p>Cas’ eyes flared red, going from white, to pale pink, to <em>blood</em> before they were glowing white again.  The flash of color came and went so fast Dean barely had time to process it.</p><p>He swallowed, uncomfortably reminded of Crowley’s eyes.</p><p>“Dean!”  Sam suddenly snapped, “Care to share with the rest of the class?”</p><p>He was annoyed, but Dean barely noticed, because just then Cas’ eyes went from white to yellow to gold and then back to white in the blink of an eye and one corner of his full mouth twitched like he’d almost smiled.</p><p>Licking his lips, Dean tried to convince his brain and his tongue to work together.  “Uh…I can see Cas’ eyes…er color.  The color of his eyes.”</p><p>Sam stared at him, thoroughly unimpressed.  “You wanna try that again?”</p><p>Again, Cas’ eyes flashed yellow-gold and this time he did smile.  Just a little.  Enough to make Dean smile in return, because <em>damn</em> that was good to see.</p><p>“Cas, your eyes are glowing!” Dean declared, still smiling.</p><p>“His eyes are almost always glowing,” Sam reminded him, looking from his brother to Cas and back again, trying to work out on his own what Dean was taking far too long to process and explain.</p><p>“No, like…they’re <em>really</em> glowing now.  And they keep changing color.  Crowley told me to…uh…”  he trailed off when Cas’ eyes went red again and then immediately darkened to black and then back to white.  The colors were soft, almost as if they were backlit, but still strangely intense with that ever-present glow of grace that softened the edges.  “He told me I should wear the holy fire glasses…” he trailed off, feeling unsure.  There was a lot more demon-y colors in Cas’ eyes than Dean would have expected from an angel.</p><p>He was starting to think the color changes had something to do with Cas’ reactions to what he was saying, but he had less than no clue what to do with that information.</p><p>After a moment of silence where Sam patiently waited for more information, the younger finally snapped.  “<em>And</em>?”</p><p>“I don’t know! Cas’ eyes are big and glowy and changing colors!  <em>That’s</em> <em>it</em>!”</p><p>“Let me try them.”</p><p>Dean handed them over, and Sam put them on.  Cas, now looking decidedly uncomfortable, tiny smile long gone, shifted in his chair, the feathers down the backs of his wings lifting a bit.</p><p>Sam frowned, staring at Cas.  “Huh.”</p><p>Cas scowled.</p><p>“Your eyes are just white for me.  But yeah, definitely more glowy.”</p><p>Grimacing like revealing the information was causing him actual physical pain, he told them, “The glasses may be letting you see my grace more…<em>more</em>.” </p><p>“Oh, wow, yeah, ok.  You’re eyes just went like…coal grey and then dark blue.  I think.  It changed really fast.  Do you know what’s happening, Cas?  Is that normal?”</p><p>But the angel’s body language – what little of it there was to read – was already guarded.  He’d turned away from Sam, staring down at the table top again, and his wings and shoulders were both tense.  Down the backs of his wings, some of the feathers closer to his body were lifting and flattening, as if Cas was making a concerted effort to keep them from flaring under the uncomfortable attention.</p><p>“I can’t be sure.”  Was the evasive answer.</p><p>“Can you tell us what you <em>think</em> might be happening?”</p><p>Dean wished he was wearing the glasses now, realizing he was staring intensely at Cas’ eyes and wishing he could see the colors flashing through them himself.</p><p>“Your eyes are blue now.  Dark, though.  Almost navy, but they’re staying that way this time.”</p><p>Cas’ feathers lifted more aggressively, obviously so freaked out by this new development that he could no longer control his physical reaction to it.  It made Dean’s heart give an aching beat and he caught his brother’s eye.</p><p>“Alright, Sam, just…lets drop it for now, yeah?”  Dean said, maybe a bit forcefully.</p><p>Sam sighed, but took the glasses off, handing them back to his brother.</p><p>They’d made some progress today, Dean reminded himself, even as he watched Cas visibly withdraw from them.  And they had gotten consent that well and truly <em>was</em> consent…sort of.  Cas said he wanted the pain to stop.  Well, if Crowley made good on his deal, it would.  Eventually.  It was just going to take a lot of work.</p><p>But they could do it, the three of them, together.  They could.</p><p>They <em>would</em>.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yeah, sorry...I was taking a condensed IT course and had ZERO free time.  But back on track now!  I know this chapter was a little tame but I feel like we needed a breather from all the heavy stuff.  Don't worry, the angst will return soon!</p><p>Let me know what you think, comments fuel mehhhh</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His feathers were soft.  So soft that it was their temperature that he felt more than anything else.  His vessel’s skin – this <em>human</em> skin – wasn’t sensitive enough to appreciate the cohesive feeling of each vane and barb gliding over the swirling ridges of his finger tips.  But he could feel it well enough for the smooth, warm, cashmere-like texture to still be comforting.</p><p>In the relative safety of his room, he allowed himself the indulgence, slowly running his hand down the inside of his wing.  It was a compulsive, mindless, movement; instinctual in the way a human child would twirl their hair or perhaps suck their thumb. </p><p>His eyes were closed, blocking out even the meager light shining from under his closed door, so that the only thing his senses were taking in was how warm and soft his feathers felt against his vessel’s skin.</p><p>In this body, he couldn’t groom himself, not properly, but this helped a little.  He found it had a similar calming effect.  And, in here, in his nest, in his room, underground, it didn’t <em>matter</em> if he indulged in such comforts.  There was no one to see or judge him, former commander of heavenly armies, nearly catatonic while he behaved like a fledgling. </p><p>He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, drifting in and out of varying levels of awareness, but, eventually, the sigil in his chest began to heal enough that his grace and the binding began to stir like entwined snakes waking from their slumber, forcing him from his meditative state.</p><p>With his return to the conscious world, input assaulted him.  After so many hours of blocking everything out, sounds and smells brushed up against his awareness like the gritty drag of sandpaper on skin.</p><p>He grimaced, letting it all wash over him at once to get it over with. </p><p>Somewhere off in the bunker, he could hear the faint <em>tap tap tap</em> of someone pacing.  Probably Dean.  The hum of electricity from the wires in the walls and the lights in the ceilings was like the buzz of angry bees.  Somewhere, someone turned on a faucet, and the old pipes shuddered and moaned in the walls.  The recycled air was stagnant and dry and he chose not to breathe it in, for now.  He’d have to, when he next saw the brothers, so as not to unnerve them with his presence any further than he already did.</p><p>Humans never seemed to notice when he was breathing, but very clearly noticed the moment he stopped.  And they didn’t like it; he’d learned that early on.  Humans do not trust things that do not need to breathe oxygen like they do.</p><p>So he’d started breathing.  He’d been doing it for so long now that it was mostly automatic.</p><p>For a moment, he contemplated standing up.  He should probably make some kind of appearance to the brothers.  They seemed to get…concerned when he hid in his room for too long and he wasn’t at all certain how long he had been ‘zoned out’ as Dean would call it.  Given that the sigil was beginning to lose it’s power, he thought it safe to assume it was nearing twenty-four hours.</p><p>And hiding away in a dark hole for that long was not normal for either humans or angels, Castiel reminded himself.</p><p>He stared at the four walls that surrounded him like sentries, feeling a twinge of longing for the endless blue sky on the other side of them.</p><p>Dean had forbidden him from leaving the bunker.  It wasn’t safe, was his reasoning.  Which was true, but the option had been taken away from him with the order. </p><p>It was that, more than the captivity itself, that made Castiel’s skin crawl.</p><p>No matter the good intentions behind it, Dean had given Castiel an order knowing full well he was incapable of disobeying.  The hunter had been pale as he said it, looking strained and drawn like he was speaking a poisonous spell that was causing him just as much pain as it was causing Castiel.</p><p>But he’d still said it.</p><p>With a surge of something that felt nauseatingly close to betrayal – what <em>right</em> did he have to feel betrayed by Dean after all the times Castiel had betrayed <em>him</em> – he manifested his blade.  He would re-carve the sigil right here and go back to his meditation.  If they wanted to make sure he was still alive in his corner of their underground den then they could come find him themselves.</p><p>The point of his blade hovered at the topmost curve of the sigil and there was a heave in his guts at the thought of having to cut through the fresh scar tissue again.  He’d never been the queasy type, had never hesitated to hurt himself if it was necessary, but the thought of bringing the needle-like point to the delicate skin – the edges of which were so, so irritated and inflamed from all the previous cuts – made him feel sick.</p><p>Dean had cut the last one for him, but Castiel didn’t fancy the idea of relying on the hunter to do it again.</p><p>Taking a moment – or perhaps just stalling – he directed his focus inward and tried his best to ignore the strengthening grip of his bindings.  On his real body, the sigil was cut somewhere around his upper left shoulder and, much like on his vessel, every time he cut a new one, it fell in more or less the same place.  And he was feeling the pain from both bodies.</p><p>He inhaled the stale air, hoping that might help steady his hand and his nerves.  Alas, it only served to remind him that he was buried underground and his heart stuttered in his chest.  He shoved the icy feeling away and raised his blade again.</p><p>
  
</p><p>As soon as the point touched the thin scar tissue it felt like an electric shock, pinpricks of pain spiderwebbing out through every inch of his chest, and he jerked the tip away from his skin.</p><p><em>I can’t do it</em>, he realized, in shock. </p><p>He felt as if an icy, ghostly blade had just cut him open from belly to throat.</p><p><em>I can’t do it</em>. </p><p>He stared down at his hand, stared at his fingers curled around the pommel; distantly confused; not understanding. </p><p>He swallowed, his breathing – hadn’t he decided not to do that for now? – was fast and shallow.  What was <em>wrong</em> with him?  How could he look at such a simple task that he <em>knew</em> needed to be done and just…not be able to do it? </p><p>He blinked, feeling disoriented.  This…this had never happened to him before.  He <em>wanted</em> to re-carve the sigil.  He <em>knew</em> he needed to re-carve the sigil. </p><p>But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.  It would <em>hurt</em> and he was <em>tired</em> of hurting.</p><p>A wave of self-loathing threatened to topple him and he lifted his blade again, letting the anger drive him.  This was ridiculous. </p><p>This time his traitorous hand started to shake before he could even bring the tip to the inflamed skin and he cursed, recognizing now what the problem was.</p><p>The humanity in him, the <em>emotions</em>, were beginning to control him as surely as the binding was.  He envisioned his true form and his vessel melting together into one grotesque combination of man and angel and he swallowed a retch.   </p><p>Tears prickled behind his eyes.  He was so <em>tired</em> of being controlled by outside forces.</p><p>He was tired of feeling like a strange and alien creature in Sam and Dean’s lives.</p><p>He was tired of being crammed in this vessel.</p><p>He was tired of everything hurting.</p><p>He was tired of being <em>tired</em>.</p><p>Staring down at the tip of his blade, he imagined ramming it straight through his own chest; saw in his mind’s eye the implosion of light and the scorched wing marks on the wall behind him.  He thought of how <em>quiet</em> the ensuing darkness would be.  He wouldn’t have to see or hear or feel <em>anything</em>.  The binding couldn’t crush him into submission if he didn’t exist.  He couldn’t be in pain if he didn’t exist.  He wouldn’t have to feel all these <em>feelings</em> if he didn’t exist.  He wouldn’t have to deal with anything at all, ever again, if he didn’t exist.</p><p>The very idea of it was enough to calm his breathing. </p><p>He lifted his blade again, the point angled at the center of his chest, and closed his eyes.</p><p>His hand wasn’t shaking anymore.</p><p>It would be easy.  It would be so very, <em>very</em> easy.  His blade would cut through him like butter.  All he had to do was pull it forward into his chest and the blade would do the rest.</p><p>
  <em>It would be so easy…</em>
</p><p>Ruthlessly, savagely, Castiel shredded the vision – the very <em>idea</em> – of acting on such a <em>cowardly</em> impulse, until there was nothing left of it.  Then, from the bottom of his memories from before he’d known Sam and Dean, from before he’d ever thought of things like breathing with human lungs and making facial expressions and eating food, he pulled up the skills he had spent millions of years honing and perfecting.</p><p>Human emotions had corrupted him; twisted him in to something that not only fantasied about its own demise, but contemplated indulging in that fantasy.</p><p>
  <em>Angels do not lay down and die.</em>
</p><p>He was rusty, that much was evident right away.  It was harder than he remembered, trying to gather everything he could feel.  His anger, his shame, his guilt, his fear, and his physical pain were a lot to juggle, but he managed it. </p><p>Then he took them all and shoved them outside of his bubble of awareness.  He then spent a few moments, trying his best to ignore the pulse of the bindings undulating over his body like a snake waking from its slumber, to fortify the walls of that bubble.  He hammered all the willpower he had in to place, sealing out anything even <em>close</em> to human.</p><p>He was left with a familiar void in place of everything else, and he took a moment to observe how very old this sensation felt.  The void felt ancient, as if he hadn’t utilised this technique for millions and millions of years. As if more time had passed since he’d met Sam and Dean than his entire existence before them.  As if existing in Sam and Dean’s world had impacted and changed him in more significant ways than all the time he’d been alive before them.</p><p>The implications of that may have bothered him, if he hadn’t managed to filter out all of his opinions and feelings on <em>everything</em> so effectively.  Just like riding a bike, Dean would say.  Whatever that meant.</p><p>It didn’t matter what that meant, because right now he existed in this moment as a soldier who had orders to survive, and that was it.  He felt nothing, not in his head, his heart, or his body.  Objectively, he knew he should feel surprised.  Or perhaps impressed with himself.  To say he was out of practice would be generous, yet he’d still managed it.</p><p>He might <em>not</em> have been surprised, though.  Or impressed.  He was a soldier and soldiers were meant to do what needed to be done at any cost, without praise, no matter how rusty they were.</p><p>With surgical precision, he cut the left leg of his pajama bottoms open and carved a new sigil in to the meat of his thigh in just a few seconds, unable to feel even the cold sensation of his skin being split wide. </p><p>It bled a lot more than his chest and he had to pull a faded purple blanket free of the wall of his nest, pressing it to the wound and blocking the light of his grace until it stopped bleeding.</p><p>The binding receded before it even really had a chance to take hold again, and Castiel quelled a bitter twitch of his lips, shoving the meager feeling of victory outside the walls with everything else.</p><p>With the binding now out of the way and the bleeding mostly stopped, Castiel rose, annoyed to note that his legs were trembling finely.  Ah well, he could only be expected to control so much at once after so long away.  For now, he ignored it, knowing that, eventually, he would be forced to either deal with it or simply fall over.</p><p>But that was a problem to be dealt with later.  Priority right now went to the fact that he needed to get rid of his blade before the walls gave way and emotion changed his mind about ending everything once and for all.  So, he left his room to find either Sam or Dean, whichever he came upon first.  His blade was held loosely in his right hand, feeling, for the first time, almost too heavy to carry.</p><p>That too, had everything to do with emotion.  His blade was not really heavier, it only felt that way; his subconscious playing tricks on him because every other part of him wanted to keep that blade with him where it <em>belonged</em>.  And that too was him <em>wanting</em> something.  Evidently, there was a leak in the walls already.  Not as effective as he had first thought. </p><p>He would need to practise.</p><p>Giving his blade over to the brothers would ensure that he had time to do so.</p><p>He found them quickly, following the scent of Dean’s aftershave and simmering impatience and Sam’s seemingly permanent smell of dusty paper and fatigue.  He knew he wasn’t supposed to smell people – Dean had told him long ago that it was creepy and he should stop – but he was without the ability to feel guilty or creepy at the moment and it was the quickest way to locate them.</p><p>They were both in the library, sitting across from each other with layers of open books before them and steaming mugs of – he sniffed – peppermint and lavender tea.  It smelled…nice.</p><p><em>No</em>.  He shoved the opinion to the other side of the wall.  Things do not smell good or bad, they just smell.</p><p>It was a moment before they noticed him striding towards them, but when they did, both of them took in the glowing cuts in his exposed thigh and the blade still in his hand. </p><p>They stood, understandably alarmed.</p><p>Sam was closest to him, so Castiel twirled his sword in his hand and delicately grabbed the blade, holding it out hilt-first to the younger brother.</p><p>“Take it,” Castiel order, before either of them could speak.</p><p>“What happened, Cas?” Sam asked instead, his tone gentle but firm.  His eyes darted down to the bloody tear in his pant leg then back up to his face.</p><p>Castiel faltered in the face of the sudden roadblock.  They were supposed to remove the temptation of his blade as requested, not ask him questions.  He hadn’t accounted for new input.  Though, in hindsight, he should have foreseen this.  The brothers always wanted to ask him questions.</p><p>The walls shuddered but, with a thought, he solidified them.  He inhaled a bit of air, so that he could push it out over his vocal chords and speak.  “You don’t want me to die,” he stated, hoping that would be the end of it.  Hoping that explained everything.   </p><p>Both of them paled.  Dean swallowed, eyes darting to his wings as if hoping to read something there, but they were folded tight. </p><p>Sam licked his lips, “No.  No, Cas, we don’t want you to die.”</p><p>In his peripherals, Dean shifted from one foot to the other.  Castiel didn’t know what that meant.</p><p>“Then you need to take this from me and hide it.  You need to hide it well, do you understand?  I will find it if you don’t," he warned without inflection in his voice, likely sounding like a reanimated corpse.  </p><p>The implication wasn’t lost on them.  Carefully, Sam took the blade from him as if Castiel had just handed him a live grenade.</p><p>As Sam took a step back and then another, Castiel stared at his sword, the only thing that could end him – end <em>this</em> – in the hands of a hunter.  In the hands of a <em>stranger</em>.  That blade had been forged from a piece of Castiel’s own body and to see it in someone else’s hands made something ugly and primal stir deep within him.</p><p>He watched as Sam disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen, resisting the urge to go after him and <em>take it back</em>.  Instead, he stayed where he was, because that was what needed to be done.  Distantly, all that he was feeling pummelled his protective walls like battering rams while he tried his best to ignore how irrationally <em>human</em> it was to be worried about giving his blade to a hunter when he had just contemplated using it to kill himself anyway.</p><p>“Cas?”</p><p>He forced his eyes to leave the empty hallway and made eye contact with Dean.  There was something in his facial expression worth reading.  Castiel contemplated doing it.</p><p>“Talk to me, buddy.  Is…is there anything I can do?”  Dean asked, sounding like he already knew how pointless the question was.  “Anything at all that can…can help?  I could…I could make us some burgers or…”</p><p>Castiel stared at him.</p><p>“…or we could watch a movie?  Or Netflix?  That always used to distract you pretty good.”  Dean’s eyes snapped this way and that over Castiel’s face, clearly looking for something and getting increasingly upset about not finding it.</p><p>Grudgingly, Castiel let himself soften a bit – blinking a few times, breathing – if only to maybe help put Dean at ease.  Apparently, his desire to soften himself for Dean was inescapable.</p><p>In any case, if seemed to work and Dean smiled at him, making the edges of Castiel’s iron hold on himself waver.</p><p>“There you are,” Dean said, sounding both concerned and breathless, as if he’d narrowly caught something precious before it hit the ground.</p><p>And, oh, Castiel knew for certain he didn’t like hearing <em>that</em> in Dean's voice and an urge to reassure him surged powerfully in his chest.  With every scrap of energy he had, Castiel made the effort to <em>try</em>.  Dean wanted to do something for him. Dean wanted to feel useful, and <em>that</em> Castiel could understand.  </p><p>He asked for the only thing he could think of needing.  “Could you…give me another pair of pants?”</p><p>The change in Dean was immediate.  His green eyes nearly lit up, clearly relieved to be of some perceived use.  “Yeah…yeah, come on, we’ll get you cleaned up.”</p><p>Obediently, Castiel followed, walking behind Dean down the dormitory hallways, the concrete like ice under his feet, until they reached the hunter’s room.  He watched as Dean dug through the bottom drawer of his dresser, inspecting and then discarding several pairs of pants that all looked suitable to Castiel but did not, apparently, meet whatever standard Dean had decided needed to be met.</p><p>Finally, Dean stood and handed him a pair of black fleece plants that looked like they might be very…cozy, as Eileen would say.  He felt a pang in his chest at the thought of her.  He might have found that he missed her, he might haven wondered how she was doing, if he hadn’t immediately shoved it to the other side of the wall.</p><p>Castiel hooked his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his current bottoms – another pair of Dean’s, green and grey plaid – when Dean suddenly turned his back, ears flaming red.</p><p>Rolling his eyes with a genuine surge of both affection and irritation, Castiel didn’t bother commenting on the pointlessness of Dean’s embarrassment, the man never took it well.  Castiel quickly changed his pants, feeling the fresh wound pull at his skin.  The smears of blood that he’d missed with the towel had dried, making his skin feel tacky.</p><p>A distraction presented itself when he realized the pants were pleasantly soft.  Of course a distraction from one thing was a distraction from everything, including the focus it took to maintain that constant barrier between himself and all those pesky emotions.  It shuddered like flimsy sheet metal in a storm when he allowed himself a moment to indulgently drag his fingertips over the synthetic fibers.  It felt quite like running his fingers through the soft down feathers near the base of his wings.</p><p>He did it a second time, couldn’t help himself – a separate issue, that – and  the walls trembled.  He had to close his eyes and still his hand, concentrating on holding them strong.</p><p>“Cas?”</p><p>He caught his breath.  Dean had turned back around and was staring at him with concern. </p><p>“You ok?”</p><p>Castiel nodded tightly, scared that any extra movement would jostle the barrier holding those human emotions at bay, even though he knew some were already seeping in through the cracks.  “Yes, it’s just um…” his heart was beating a little too fast, he thought, “Very soft.”</p><p>“Oh, well if you like soft stuff I got another pair of those.  Never even worn them!”  he turned to rummage through the drawer again, “When we first moved in I thought the bunker was gonna be super cold so I got a couple pairs of these but never really used them.”</p><p>Castiel scowled at Dean’s back.  Easy to say when he wasn’t the one walking around with no shirt and no grace.  The bunker was <em>freezing</em> and seemed to be getting colder with each passing day.</p><p>“It’s too bad you can’t wear a sweater or something,” Dean said as he handed over a second pair of fleece bottoms – these ones were forest green - and glanced at his wings.</p><p>Blushing, because the irony of that statement was that his wings were getting in the way of much more than just his ability to put on a sweater, Castiel subtly mushed the fleece bottoms in his hands, feeling the soft fibers.</p><p>Dean’s face fell, “Oh…are…you’re not cold, are you?  Can you…get…cold?” </p><p>Castiel stared, then reminded himself to blink.  “Not when I have access to my grace.  But I’ll…these will be fine.”</p><p>He would literally give anything to be able to fly away into the ether in this moment.  The emotions were trickling through the cracks in the walls and shame was heating his cheeks.  He wasn’t even sure what he should feel ashamed <em>about</em>.</p><p>He turned to leave, but Dean’s hand landed in the space between his neck and shoulder – the only place it could, given that his wings were in the way of his actual shoulder – and squeezed.</p><p>“Wait, just…talk to me, Cas.  It feels like…I dunno, it feels like something's changed.”  Dean’s calloused hand slipped away.  “You’re shutting down.  Shutting us out.  I can tell, you know.”</p><p>Castiel resisted the urge to snap, and shoved the anger out.  “I don’t know what you want me to say, Dean,” he said bluntly, because it was the truth.</p><p>“Well, first, I’d like you to tell me if you’re cold.  You said you don’t get cold when you have access to your grace and right now you don’t.  So are you cold?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Blinking a few times like he’d been expecting more resistance on Castiel’s part, Dean’s tense shoulders loosened.  “Okay…I wish you’d told me sooner.  We can make you something to wear.  Don’t tell Sam, but my sewing skills are pretty solid.”  He grinned but it didn’t reach his eyes.</p><p>“Considering the amount of times you have sewn him back together I think Sam may already be aware of your advanced skill level.”</p><p>Dean’s face did that thing it did when Castiel didn’t get one of his jokes.</p><p>“Anyways,” he said, his expression smoothing and his green eyes turning gentle, “You wanna tell me why you just gave us your blade?”</p><p>This was one of those questions Dean liked to ask him and then get mad at his answer, so he made an attempt to skirt around the real issue, hoping the hunter would drop the subject for both their sake. “I tried to carve the sigil again and couldn’t.”  he felt the spiderweb of pain arch through his chest as a ghost at the memory and shame writhed, slimy and hot, against his consciousness.  “I couldn’t do it,” he repeated.  “Because it <em>hurt</em> too much.”  His lip curled in disgust, “I couldn’t do it.”</p><p>Dean came around to stand in front of him, green eyes bright but expression heavy.  “Cas, that’s <em>normal</em>.  Taking a knife to your own chest over and over isn’t supposed to be something you can just do without being affected by it.  It would be weird if you <em>were </em>able to do it.”</p><p>“No, it would only be weird if I was <em>human</em>.  I’m <em>not</em> human.  An <em>angel</em> should be able to do what needs to be done no matter how much it hurts.  No matter how much they don’t <em>want</em> to do it, because what an angel wants <em>doesn’t matter</em>.”</p><p>Dean looked stricken and a little bit angry; his freckles were suddenly stark against the paleness in his face.  “Don’t say that shit, of course it matters what you want.  Look, I don’t know how you’re blocking out all this shit, but I can tell that that’s what you’re doing ok?  You’ve gone all robo-angel on me. Just…<em>please</em> don’t do this Cas.  I’m asking you to talk to me, I’m asking you to tell me what’s going on in your head.  I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”</p><p>Guiltily, Dean hesitated before pulling the holy fire glasses from his pocket and putting them on.</p><p>A thin trickle of annoyance breached the wall. </p><p>“Those won’t help you see anything because you don’t understand what you’re looking at.”</p><p>“I know what I’m looking at Cas.  I’m looking at <em>my friend,</em> who’s in pain and I don’t know how to help him.  I'm looking at <em>my friend</em>, who's shutting down right before my eyes. I’m looking at <em>my friend,</em> that I can’t even <em>think</em> of living without again.  I’m looking at <em>you</em>, Cas, and I <em>want</em> to understand, but you gotta help me.”</p><p>Dean’s words were like a trebuchet against his flimsy wooden walls and he swore he could almost feel them splinter under a spike of fear that everything was about to come crashing down.</p><p>“Ok,” Dean licked his lips nervously, “Your eyes are light blue er…no, now they’re dark, like navy blue.”</p><p>Castiel scowled and surged back against the invading emotions that were trying to cut him down at the knees.</p><p>“Oh…now they’re grey.  What…what does that mean?”</p><p>Taking a moment to steady his mind, Castiel reinforced the walls, imagining fusing titanium plates against the splintering wood.  This was the only way he was going to survive this; he could not let the desperation in Dean’s voice impact him so destructively.</p><p>“Cas?” Dean’s voice trembled with uncertainty, turning Castiel’s own name in to a missile.</p><p>Castiel ruthlessly turned it to ash in the air.</p><p>“It means,” he said, carefully adding inflection back in to his voice so as not to unnerve the human before him.  “I am actively disengaging from my emotions.”</p><p>Dean swallowed, visibly unsettled; visibly upset.  “Jesus, it's like the first time I met you.  Is…does this have something to do with why you gave us your blade?”</p><p>Knowing this was another question to which the answer would bring anger, Castiel merely stared.  But that, apparently, was the end of Dean’s patience.</p><p>“<em>Tell me</em>, Cas.”</p><p>His mouth opened before he could even consider trying to keep it closed. </p><p>"Yes.  I almost killed myself.”</p><p>A breath escaped Dean's throat in a sharp gust, as if Castiel had punched hm in the chest instead of just answering his question.  “In your room, just half an hour ago?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Dean’s face went from being red from frustration to pale and ill looking, perhaps thinking of what had almost happened just down the hall, without him even being aware of it.  It was getting harder and harder to read the man with every passing minute, Castiel noted, now that he did not have his own emotions to use as reference. He carried on.</p><p>“But you have expressed that you do not want me to die, therefore I gave you my blade.  There are other ways, of course, but –“</p><p>“Just – stop talking,” Dean shoved his fingers under his glasses to scrub his eyes.  “I mean, no, sorry, I didn’t mean…you can talk whenever you want – not that you need my permission to talk, I…fuck…<em>fuck</em>.”</p><p>Dean ripped the glasses from his face and shoved the glasses back into his pocket.</p><p>Castiel stared at him, Dean’s anger unsurprising but still confusing.  “Why are you upset?  I did as you asked.  I did not die.”</p><p>But Dean just stared at him, then slowly shook his head, angry, <em>disappointed</em>.  “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you.”</p><p>Castiel allowed himself a small twitch of his lips, feeling cruel.  “Well then, you finally understand why I rarely bother speaking.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p>                         </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sooo I know this was a bit shorter than most chapters but if I didn't cut it here it would have been like a thirty page chapter.  Anyways, let me know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Look at this fucking art...I mean I just...it's so beautiful.  Thank you, Ella &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll take the deal. How soon can your angel expert get here?”  Dean spoke evenly into the phone, relieved to hear that none of the heartache that had carved a home in his chest came through in his voice.  The last thing he wanted was for Crowley to figure out just how badly they needed him.</p><p>“<em>Things gone a bit sideways, have they?</em>”  Crowley asked, almost managing to sound genuinely sympathetic. </p><p>“<em>How soon</em>?” </p><p>The King of Hell sighed.  “<em>Well, since I’m such a good friend, and because I know you two lumberjacks well enough to know you’d cave eventually, I went ahead and gave my guy a heads up.  He’s probably already in America, eager as he is for new subjects.</em>”</p><p>“You tell him how to get here?”</p><p> “<em>Naturally</em>.”</p><p>“And the Viking?”</p><p>“<em>Ahh, he’ll be a few days, I’m afraid.  Currently tied up in South America.</em>”    </p><p>“Fine, whatever, just tell your angel expert to get his ass over here A.S.A.P.”  Dean hung up before Crowley could get in another snide remark, his blood pressure already higher just from hearing the guy’s voice.</p><p>He was angry.  Angry at Crowley for having this power over them.  Angry they needed Crowley in the first place.  Angry at <em>himself</em> for not reading the signs in Cas sooner, for letting Cas walk the path to this place alone.  The symptoms had all been there, like glowing neon signs screaming at him that Cas was struggling.  More than struggling, if he was honest, but Dean had been so fearful of what those symptoms indicated that it had crippled him. </p><p>And now Cas was so far gone he was only letting them save him because they’d told him to.</p><p>And Dean couldn’t even pretend he hadn’t known this might happen, because Cas had <em>told</em> him it might.  It had been a long time ago, but Dean should have <em>done</em> something about it, he just hadn’t know what.  Moving from crisis to crisis both he and Cas had latched on to each new distraction, just for different reasons and, eventually, though Dean never forgot, it got easier to convince himself that Cas was ok.  That he was past those words now. He thinks Cas may have convinced himself too.</p><p><em>Nope</em>, Dean’s inner voice spoke up harshly, <em>liar</em>. <em>Liar!</em>  Dean hadn’t convinced himself of anything, he’d just ignored it.  He ignored it whenever Cas did something reckless that ended with him getting hurt, silently patching him up without asking <em>why</em>.  He’d ignored it whenever Cas showed blatant indifference after narrowly escaping death <em>again</em>.  Ignored it whenever Cas made some small, throw-away comment that was just <em>off</em> in a way that Sam didn’t even notice because it wasn’t <em>Sam</em> that Cas had looked in the eye and said, “<em>I’m afraid I might kill myself</em>.” </p><p>He’d said that to Dean, and Dean had done <em>nothing</em>; had said <em>nothing</em>. </p><p>And now it had progressed past a mere concern.  Cas wasn’t just worried he <em>might</em> kill himself; he was so sure that he <em>would</em> that he had given them his sword and smashed all the parts of himself that <em>felt</em> to dust. </p><p>Beyond all odds, Cas had come to him <em>again</em> and at first Dean had been grateful.  He didn’t deserve Cas’ trust, not after how he’d handled it the last time, but the gratitude had quickly crumbled, crushing him under the weight of a terrible realization.  Because the more he replayed it over in his head the more Dean was certain that Cas had not given them his sword because he knew it would irreparably devastate them to walk into his room and find him dead, but because he’d been given an express order to get better. To heal.  To not die.</p><p>It wasn’t <em>Cas</em> choosing not to kill himself, it was <em>Castiel</em> refusing to disobey a direct order.</p><p>He should have called Crowley the second Cas had consented to the deal.  But he’d felt almost dirty, even with Cas’ consent, at the idea of going through with it and he’d put it off, hoping he could think of something <em>else</em>; some last-minute stroke of genius that meant they didn’t have to do it <em>this way</em>.  Or at least something that would spare Cas having to let Crowley <em>rip out his feathers</em> once it was all over.</p><p>Now here he was in the same place anyway, just twenty-four hours and one angel on suicide watch later.</p><p>Dean swallowed, which was hard given how tight his throat was getting, thinking of Cas somewhere in the bunker under Sam’s keen and concerned gaze.  Cas had probably been sitting in his nest when the thought came to him.  Had he pressed his blade to his throat experimentally?  Had it been hard for him to pull away from the temptation to end all his pain right then and there?  Had he thought of Dean, sitting in the library with Sam, unaware, still researching ways to help him and not knowing it would soon no longer be necessary?  Had he thought of what it would be like for them to find him? </p><p>He wanted to believe that Cas <em>knew</em> how world-breaking it would have been for Dean to walk into his room and find him, eyes lifeless and staring, wings scorched black against the walls, his hands and nest covered in his own blood, his blade protruding from his chest…just like that time he’d walked in after that reaper had stabbed him.</p><p>Dean screwed his eyes shut, something black and terrifying spreading through his chest.  He balled his hands into fists and tried to force the images from his head, but the harder he tried, the clearer they seemed to become, and it was getting harder to breathe.  Unhelpfully, his lungs tried to compensate and before he knew it he was hyperventilating.  When the tips of his fingers and toes began to tingle, he stumbled backwards, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed and trying to shift gears.</p><p>It had been a long time since he’d had a panic attack of this magnitude and it was hard to fight his way past the gut-wrenching images of what Cas had almost done to focus on the breathing exercises he’d been practicing.</p><p>When his lungs expanded on the next inhale, it was too automatic and too fast and the air stuttered through his constricted throat.  He tried to hold it there for a second, then two, before breathing out with a touch more control.  Fighting his own lungs was always hard, but he’d had a fair bit of practice by this time in his life and the next inhale was already less aggressive.  After the third, the tingling in his hands and feet receded, letting him know it was working, that he wasn’t going to pass out, and it helped calm him further. </p><p>By the time he had his breathing back under control, Dean could feel the stickiness of dried tears on his face and he sighed shakily, unable to summon the energy to feel ashamed of it.  Tears came with panic attacks; he had no control over that.  And besides, here in his room, alone, there was no one to judge him.  Not that he thought Sam or Cas would judge him for crying but…old stereotypes die hard.</p><p>For a while he simply sat and stared at his wall, numb, thinking of nothing at all while he continued to breathe. </p><p>In…out…</p><p>In…out…</p><p>In…out…</p><p>…until he was sure the adrenaline was gone and the tears were done falling.  Panic attacks always left him feeling exhausted and hollowed out and he took the emotional numbness while it lasted, shifting his focus onto something else.</p><p>Anything else.</p><p>He thought of the stranger that was soon going to be knocking on their door, hopefully bringing the skills and tools needed to fix what was turning out to be the biggest crisis Dean could remember facing.  Which, for him, was saying something.</p><p>His heart ached, feeling as if it had been wrung dry like a dirty dishcloth.</p><p>He’d almost lost Cas without even knowing it.  And he wanted to be relieved but knew better than most that there was more than one way to lose someone.  With the way Cas was behaving now, it felt like he was fading away before Dean’s very eyes.  And he couldn’t look directly at the feelings that stirred in him, because they were all razor-edged and unfathomable, prowling around the edges of his consciousness like poison searching for a vein.</p><p> They didn’t have room for another mistake.  Cas had an iron grip on himself now, but no one could keep that up forever.  Dean wouldn’t want him to even if he could.  The way Cas was now – the way he <em>used</em> to be – that was no way to live.</p><p>They’d hidden the angel blade in a warded box, in the electrical room, inside a crate of odds and ends and old wires.  But Cas’ words kept replaying in his head over and over.</p><p><em>There are other ways, of course</em>.  Said so casually, like he was talking about taking a different route to the grocery store.  In that flat, alien voice Dean had forgotten. </p><p>He wiped a hand down his face, skin itchy from the dried tears.</p><p>They needed this angel doctor…psychologist…whatever he was <em>yesterday.  </em>But, he reasoned, it could be worse.  They could be starting tomorrow instead of today.</p><p>Dean closed his eyes without thinking, the edges of his thoughts fuzzy with fatigue, and prayed for Cas to hang on just a little longer. </p><p><em>Hang on, angel.  Help is coming.</em> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Crowley texted him a few hours later, simply telling him to ‘answer the call when it comes’ and, being in that perpetual state of both trusting and not trusting the guy, Dean just jabbed his thumb at the screen when it displayed ‘<em>Unknown Caller</em>’ a few minutes later.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“<em>Dean Winchester?  This is William Pryce, but please call me Liam.   Mr. Crowley told me you would be expecting my call.</em>”</p><p>Of course he was British.</p><p>“Yeah, this is Dean.  How soon can you get here?” Dean closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, telling himself to try and be a little nicer to the guy that was, hopefully, going to literally be saving Cas’ life.</p><p>“<em>Well, I only landed about an hour ago and right now I’m in the process of hiring a car.  Or trying to, at least.  The bloody attendant seems to have wandered off.</em>”</p><p>“I’ll come get you,” Dean offered at once, desperate to get this show on the road.  “You at Kansas City Airport?”</p><p>“<em>I am, however that won’t be necessary, I see her coming back now.</em>”</p><p>Dean stopped with his hand on the knob of his bedroom door, knowing it would take twice as long for him to go get Liam and come back than it would for Liam to just drive one way, but he was desperate for something, <em>anything</em>, to do that could be useful.</p><p>“<em>Actually, I would like to use the drive to Lebanon constructively.  If you’re feeling up to it, I have quite a few questions I need to ask and if you can give me as much of the backstory from your perspective as you can, it will save a lot of time and I can move on to the questions only the angel will be able to answer as soon as I get there</em>.”</p><p>Dean’s heart lurched.  <em>Yes</em>, something to <em>do</em>. “Yeah, yeah, of course, whatever you need.”</p><p>Liam’s voice was kind, calm, and warm, with a gentle roughness that indicated he was older.  It helped settled Dean’s nerves.  He wasn’t sure what Sam was doing with Cas, but he was confident his brother had the situation in hand. Dean still felt like a wreck and knew he would be much more useful here, filling Liam in on the situation so he could hit the ground running when he got here.</p><p>“<em>…need a car for the foreseeable future.  I’m not sure when I’ll be returning it.  Dealer’s choice, I really don’t…good lord, not that one</em>.”</p><p>While Liam spoke to the attendant, Dean made sure his door was locked.  Cas had given them his consent to do whatever needed to be done of course, but that didn’t mean Dean wanted him to stumble in while he was baring the angel’s history to some stranger on the phone.</p><p>“<em>My apologies, Dean, we’re nearly done here.</em>”</p><p>Dean mumbled that it was fine, using the time to try and get his circling thoughts in order and his wayward emotions under control.  There was a few more minutes of Liam sorting out his car and Dean nervously pacing from one corner of his room, around his bed to the other corner, and then back again before he finally heard a car door slamming closed and Liam muttering while he tried to figure out the Bluetooth settings.</p><p>“<em>Ah, there we are!  Now,</em>” the engine came smoothly to life in the background, “<em>Mr. Crowley told me the angel’s name is Castiel.  It that correct?”</em></p><p>“Yeah, that’s him.”  Dean rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans.</p><p>“<em>Excellent! Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to prepare but I did do a </em>little<em> research.  The Angel of Saturn, Temperance, and Tears.  A most curious presiding, don’t you think?  The contradiction is quite unusual, but then so much of what we know is based only on written record, and so much of </em>that<em>, of course, was passed down through the unreliable art of story telling, so really its anyone’s guess how accurate that may be.  I always take it worth a grain of salt until I’ve had a chance to speak to the angel themselves.  Usually, it’s a load of bullocks.  Oh!  Another interesting thing was how many variations of the name Castiel there were.  Much more than usual.  Caphziel, Cassiel, Cassael, Qephetzial and quite a few more, actually.  I was surprised to.…well anyway, I’m getting off track already.  Why don’t you tell me a little bit about them?</em>”</p><p>Dean blinked, trying to process the new information.  Dean had known Cas for ten years and he’d never once thought to type his name into a google search.  “Er…about who?” Dean glanced at his firmly closed door, his brain lagging well behind the conversation.</p><p>“<em>About Castiel, of course.</em>”</p><p>“Oh…er…well, I dunno he’s…we’ve known him for almost ten years, I think?  He pulled me out of hell, I stabbed him in the chest, now we’re friends.  I don’t know what to tell you.  There’s…there’s a lot of history.”</p><p>“<em>Why don’t we start with how you’ve come to the relationship you have now.  After all, your situation, while not unheard of, is unusual.  Angels don’t generally bond with humans.  Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule.” </em></p><p><em>Cas is the exception to a lot of rules</em>, Dean thought.</p><p><em>“Do they live with you and your brother?</em>”</p><p>Dean stared at his wall, tripping over ‘they’ again before it suddenly clicked, remembering long ago when he’d made a tasteless joke about Cas doing something ‘men’ aren’t supposed to do. Cas had given him a flat stare and told him that he, like all angels, was neither male nor female.  </p><p>He cleared his throat, stomach cramping, wondering if calling Cas ‘he’, especially after Cas had pointed out that it wasn’t accurate, had bothered him…er, them.</p><p>He shook his head.  He could ask Cas about it later.  Right now, he had to focus on the conversation and make sure he answered Liam’s questions as truthfully as he could, with as much detail as he could.  The next couple hours were going to be uncomfortable, but if he could spare Cas the discomfort of having to talk about all the things he had done and had been done <em>to</em> him, then he would.</p><p>Taking another moment to think carefully about the question, he answered, “I mean, I guess he lives here.  He’s got his own room and everything but…he hasn’t really used it.  Until recently,” he added<em>.  Until I bound him and made him so helpless he can’t leave the bunker</em>.  “Uh…but he never really stuck around much before all this happened.  Maybe a day or two, or three if he was really hurt or something.  Then he was off again, doing whatever he does when he’s gone.  So, you know, I don’t know if I would say he <em>lives</em> here.  I mean, I’d <em>like</em> to be able to say that, but…”</p><p>“<em>Mmm, angels are notoriously finicky about where they settle down.  That is, the ones who settle at all.  You would notice it, if Castiel thought of your home as their home also.  It would likely start with them bringing personal items into the space or lingering even when there is no need for them to.  Once they get really comfortable they may even build a nest for themselves.  Or for them and their partner if they have one.”</em></p><p>Feeling as if a weight were pulling him down, Dean sat on the edge of his bed wondering what ‘personal items’ would even look like for an angel.  They didn’t really need <em>things</em>, did they? “Yeah, well, Cas…Cas doesn’t do any of that.”</p><p>“<em>As I said, they are finicky</em>.”  Liam’s voice was warm, sympathetic.  “<em>Try not to take it personally.</em>”</p><p>Dean knew he shouldn’t.  It wasn’t as if he and Sam had given Cas much reason to think of the bunker as home over the last few years.  And a couple weeks of trying wasn’t going to undo all that.</p><p>“<em>Can you tell me a bit more about Castiel? Their personality, what they like, what they dislike…?</em>”</p><p>“Uh…” Dean closed his eyes, trying to find just <em>words</em> to sum Castiel up and wondering why his chest felt so tight again.  “Uh…stubborn.  Super smart.  Grumpy. Guilty.  Sad.  <em>Really</em> sad.  We,” he swallowed, telling the sudden spike of panic that it could <em>fuck off</em>, “We got him on suicide watch right now.  My brother, Sam, is…is with him.  Cas gave us his blade this morning and told us we need to hide it from him because he almost drove it through his own chest.”  He scrubbed at his eyes, “I was right down the hall.  I wouldn’t even have known until…”</p><p>Until the explosion took out half the lights in the bunker.  He would have run to Cas’ room right away; he would have known <em>then</em>; he would have opened the door to see –</p><p>He forced the images away, refusing to have another panic attack over something that hadn’t happened, and instead focused on what he could do to make sure it never did.</p><p>“<em>Why does he feel guilty, Dean?</em>” Liam prompted gently.</p><p>But that was too broad a question and there were just too many painful answers.  He didn’t know where to start and when he opened his mouth nothing came out.</p><p>“<em>That’s alright, we can come back to that one later.  Can you tell me why you think Castiel is sad?</em>”</p><p>Dean choked on a laugh, scrubbing away the rest of the pins and needles behind his eyes.  “You got three hours?”</p><p>“<em>I have four, actually</em>.”</p><p>Dean blinked.  Right.  He sighed, “Okay then, Doc, make sure your phone is plugged in ‘cause this is gonna take a while.” </p><p>He laid down on his back and stared at the ceiling.  Then he started to talk.</p><p>And talk.</p><p>And talk.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>His mouth was dry.  His head ached.  His heart ached.  Dean shuffled, exhausted, to the kitchen and guzzled down three full glasses of water before the pasty feeling on his tongue was gone.</p><p>He’d given Liam as much of Cas’ backstory as he could, as well as all the ways Sam and Dean were woven into it.  He’d also had the uncharacteristic foresight to warn the man that there were many, <em>many</em> things about Cas that he <em>didn’t</em> know and that Cas had always been reluctant to talk, but over the last few years had seemingly become terrified at the thought of giving up information about himself; even to them.</p><p>Liam had listened, silent and understanding even when Dean knew he wasn’t making any sense and prompting him when emotion clogged his throat.  And he’d had a <em>lot</em> of questions about the binding.  Dean had answered as many as he could, but of course could only give answers from his point of view.  When it came to questions about how Cas felt and what the binding was doing to him on the inside, Dean couldn’t help, because Cas wouldn’t tell them much.</p><p>“<em>It is unlikely that Castiel is simply refusing to tell you,” </em>Liam said, and Dean heard the gentle admonishment in his tone.<em>  “Angels feel things just as deeply as you or I, but they lack the words to accurately explain them.  And I use the word ‘accurately’ deliberately.  Accuracy is important to angels and if they cannot deliver the information precisely as it is, then they cannot deliver it at all, because something that is incomplete is also incorrect, or, possibly untrue.</em>”</p><p>In just a few sentences, so many things that had always seemed strange about Cas fell in to place.  His reluctance to explain himself; his refusals to sometimes answer even simple questions; his blank stares of confusion whenever one of the brothers asked him how he was doing after he’d gotten hurt. </p><p>Realizing he was pressing his phone against his ear too hard, Dean loosened his grip, desperate for more insight into Cas’ head.</p><p>“<em>As one human to another, I could simply say to you, Dean, I’m sad that my dog died.  Even if you’ve never owned a dog, you would understand precisely how I was feeling; you may even feel the echoing pain of sympathy.  But you can only do that because you are a human who knows how it feels to </em>be<em> a human.  But how does a creature like an angel explain to a creature like a human how it </em>feels<em> to have their grace bound by magical chains?  Humans don’t have words for that.  Even if Castiel tried, it simply wouldn’t make sense.  It </em>can’t<em> make sense because we don’t have the reference for it</em>.”</p><p>Dumbfounded, Dean closed his eyes, letting his brain re-work ten years worth or perceptions and assumptions about Cas and how his mind worked.</p><p>“<em>Furthermore, what you must understand is that angels don’t even use spoken language to communicate with each other</em>.”</p><p>Dean gave a start, “Crowley mentioned that,” he blurted, hating that Crowley knew something so fundamental about Cas that Dean hadn’t.</p><p>“<em>It’s true.  Castiel will have spent most of their life never speaking a word unless they were occupying a human vessel.  Perhaps not even then.  Now, angels do use a truly mind-boggling array of different sounds to help them communicate with each other.  But mostly, they use color.</em>”</p><p>So many things clicked in to place in that moment that Dean swore he heard the <em>snick</em> inside his brain.  Cas talking about how every angel had colors unique to them in their wings.  The golden hue of Cas’ eyes when he first spotted the nest and was overcome with gratitude.  Everything that the holy fire glasses had shown them.  That guy who said all he saw was colors when he tried to read Cas’ mind.</p><p><em>Holy shit</em>, Dean thought numbly.  The colors he could see through those glasses was Cas<em> talking to him;</em> broadcasting exactly how he was feeling to anyone who knew how to read the language.</p><p>But how the hell was he going to learn how to speak <em>color</em>?  He was pretty sure RosettaStone didn’t have that one.</p><p>After voicing his concerns to Liam, the man patiently explained that it could be learned, and that he could teach Dean, but it would take time.</p><p>“<em>Regretfully, as humans we can never truly be fluent.  We lack the ability to see, let alone conceptualize, the micro-degrees of variances between shades.</em>”</p><p>Dean’s heart sank a little.  So he would never be able to really understand Cas, no matter how hard he tried.  His tiny human brain just wasn’t built for it.</p><p>“<em>Dean, while it’s true that you will never be able to understand Castiel the way their own species does, you will be able to understand them in a multitude of ways more profound than you do now.  Whether human or angel, it does not matter; you cannot wholly and truly know </em>anyone<em> other than yourself.</em>”</p><p>“Even that’s iffy, sometimes.” Dean couldn’t help but gripe, rubbing his forehead to dispel the building ache there.  But he felt better, hearing Liam say that, because it was true.  Now that he thought about it, of course he would never be able to understand Cas a hundred percent.  He also would never understand Sam a hundred percent.  They were separate people, with separate brains, and separate personalities, and that’s the way it should be.</p><p>After talking to Liam for only a couple hours, Dean felt better than he had in weeks.  While the crushing weight of the task ahead still weighed heavily on his mind, it felt a tiny bit lighter.  It was clear Liam knew his stuff.  They had help now.  Experienced, professional, help.</p><p>They could do this.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The call hadn’t taken nearly as long as Dean had expected it to but, hot on the heels of a panic-attack, a three hour conversation about all the reasons why his BFF might want to kill himself left Dean feeling as gutted as a dead fish. Still, he was glad it was out of the way and that the foundation had been laid.  He’d even expressed his gratitude for Liam’s direct and efficient line of questioning.</p><p>“<em>I’m a professional, dear</em>, <em>and a very old one at that,</em>” Liam had responded.</p><p>The man was still an hour out from the bunker and Dean spent it showering and doing a load of laundry, carefully avoiding the sitting room.  When he sat down at the War Room table to wait, he could just hear the tinny sound of canned laughter from some sitcom Sam likely had on as a distraction.</p><p>Dean felt like he was sitting in a hospital, waiting for some doctor to come sweeping down the hallway to give him Cas’ diagnosis and it wasn’t a full minute before he was up and pacing.  It was an entire eternity more before three smart knocks on the iron door above him jolted him like an electric shock and he shot up the stairs.</p><p>When he hauled the heavy door open, he was distantly surprised to note that the sky was getting dark behind the old man standing before him.</p><p>He was a very normal looking.  Probably in his mid sixty’s, short but messy white hair, kind blue eyes staring through delicately frames glasses.  He reminded Dean vaguely of Ian McKellen.</p><p>“Hi,” Dean said too loudly, feeling at odds with finally having a face to put to the voice he’d just spent three hours spilling his guts to.</p><p>Liam smiled, eyes practically twinkling behind his glasses.  “Good evening, Dean.”</p><p>Quickly, he stepped aside, motioning for Liam to enter, and closed the door behind him, leading the way down to the large table below the landing.</p><p>“Uh, this is the war room.  I…don’t know why we call it that.” Feeling awkward, Dean scratched the back of his head.  “Uh, Cas is with Sam should…should I go get them?”</p><p>When Dean jabbed is thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the sitting room, Liam’s gaze followed curiously. </p><p>Liam deposited a tattered briefcase and a very old looking doctor’s kit bag on the table, but he didn’t unbutton his forest green peacoat, instead turning back to face Dean.  “Well, you know Castiel better than I, so your and your brother’s input will be especially important over the next few days. First impressions to an angel in such an injured state are critical.  They will be even slower to trust than they normally are and if we don’t move with care and purpose, you may find that the trust they already had in you begins to wane.”</p><p>Dean tried not to let that hit too hard.  He was pretty sure that was already happening.</p><p>“Given their current mental state, how do you think they may handle seeing a new face?  You mentioned you believe they don’t necessarily consider this their home, which is fine, but do they at least feel <em>safe</em> here?  Because that will influence how we handle this introduction.”</p><p>Dean refused to let his eyes slide away and made himself admit that, “No, he doesn’t feel safe here.”</p><p>Liam nodded, as if he had suspected as much.  “I can tell that’s upsetting to you, Dean, but you really shouldn’t take it personally.  The problem is likely not with you or your brother, but with the location.  Angels don’t do well inside stone walls and I doubt very much they would be comfortable underground.”</p><p>Dean blinked.  “This is the safest place in north America.”</p><p>“You could ward a coffin in the ground against all evil but would you feel comfortable living in it?”  Liam peered over the top of his glasses shrewdly, like a professor addressing a student who was being a bit thick.  “Angels are creatures of flight. Their home is the sky and its walls are the horizon.  As humans, we feel safe in fortresses; the more impenetrable the better.  For an angel, safety is the open air; it is in having the <em>choice</em> to fight or to flee.  To an angel, our human fortresses are both impenetrable <em>and</em> inescapable; there is no safety in being trapped.  You cannot expect Castiel to feel as safe here as you do, their mind simply does not work like that.”  Liam gestured towards the library with an appreciative eye, “I, however, think it really is quite lovely and I feel very safe here already.  It is alright to acknowledge that the perspective of someone else differs from that of your own.  Neither is right or wrong.  They are simply not the same.”</p><p>Dean stared at the man, dumbstruck yet again by the simplicity or such a profound insight. </p><p>Liam, mercifully ignoring his open-faced surprise, clapped his hands together with an encouraging smile, “Now, given all that, I think it best if perhaps we do this introduction outside, do you agree?”</p><p>“Yeah…yeah, outside.”  Dean swallowed, having to force his next words up, because while he desperately wanted to grab the shift in topic and run with it, they were doing this to make sure their wounds were healing, not festering.  And this felt like it was important for Liam to know.  “And I think…I think it might have a little bit to do with us.  Him not feeling safe here, I mean.”</p><p>Carefully, Liam’s face schooled itself into something patiently neutral, waiting for more information before he formed an opinion. “Why do you believe that?”</p><p>“He uh…he told us it freaks him out to be trapped in here with three hunters.”  Liam’s eyes narrowed contemplatively, but Dean felt no judgement.  Not yet anyway.  He pressed on, shame wedging itself between each word.  “And uh…my mom, she’s a hunter too, she…she shot him.”</p><p>Bushy eyebrows shot upwards.  “Why?”</p><p>Dean finally had to break eye contact, unable to say the words and having a feeling Liam was about to say them for him. </p><p>“I see.” Liam’s voice was solemn with understanding, and Dean felt like a kid that had just disappointed his wise old grandfather.  “Your mother shares the unfortunate viewpoint of most hunters; that anything that isn’t human isn’t <em>worth</em> their compassion.  From what I understand, it is a hard opinion to crawl out from under, as I’m sure you know.”</p><p>Dean looked up sharply, his mouth already open and his heart already beating hard with the implication.</p><p>But Liam spoke first, his blue eyes suddenly challenging.  “If you can look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never treated Castiel differently simply <em>because</em> they are an angel, I will retract my statement.”</p><p>Dean closed his mouth, unclenching his fists as soon as he noticed.  The wind left his sails abruptly.  Liam was right.</p><p>“Dean, I’ve been doing this for a very long time, and you are not the first hunter I have helped.  You’re not even the first hunter I’ve helped to change their mindset about other species.  I <em>know</em> what this life does to humans, I know how difficult it is to change your opinions about something or someone, even if it’s someone you care for deeply.  You may feel like you’re betraying them, or being cruel.  And you may not understand why you desperately <em>want</em> to change the way you think about them but <em>can’t</em>.” Liam was staring at him with such open compassion and understanding that Dean felt his throat tighten.</p><p>He felt naked.  Liam seemed to have a knack for putting into words what Dean had only recently been able to identify and isolate as issues, let alone describe out loud.  But hearing it now…he felt both ashamed and reassured.  He hated admitting it, even to himself, but sometimes Cas could be frightening in that way only supernatural creatures could be.  Ways that lit up the most primitive parts of Dean’s brain; the parts that had assured the success of their species by making them run back to the safety of their caves when something bigger and stronger than them crossed their paths.</p><p>Dean wasn’t a caveman and Cas wasn’t a monster lurking in the darkness beyond the firelight; so why couldn’t Dean stop thinking like he was?</p><p>Removing his glasses and pulling a microfiber cloth from his coat pocket, Liam carefully cleaned the right lens. “Dean, I would like to get something out of the way before we proceed any further, and that is that I will not mince words with any of you.  I am here to help, but the time for sparing feelings has passed. From what you have told me, Castiel is balancing upon the edge of a cliff and only trying to decide if they should jump off or step back.  You, Sam, and myself are the only three people in the universe standing behind him.  When I say things that seem harsh or cruel, I say them only because you need to <em>hear</em> them and <em>accept</em> them if you are to help convince Castiel that taking that step back is better than jumping.”</p><p>Dean nodded, feeling ill, and Liam replaced his glasses, staring up at him and offering a small, encouraging smile.</p><p>“I think that’s enough of the heavy stuff for now.  What say we move on to introductions?  Why don’t I wait outside and you can fetch Sam and Castiel and the four of us can all have a nice chat?”</p><p>Given how desperate he was to move on, Dean gave a short nod and turned on his heel, heading for the sitting room.  Talking was great, and Liam was shockingly good at his job – he’d already learned more about Cas and himself in the last few hours than he had in the last ten years - but it had been a very, <em>very</em> long and emotionally taxing day.  He wanted to move things along and shift Liam’s intense insights on to someone else for a while. </p><p>He thought wistfully of his memory foam bed and the silence of his bedroom, his muscles aching.</p><p>Stupid panic attacks.</p><p>The sitting room was sparse, with nothing besides a flat screen tv on the wall over the fireplace and a single, forest green, three-seat sofa and battered coffee table in the center of the room.  Sam and Cas were on opposite ends of the sofa.  Sam had an air of forced relaxation, slouching in his spot with his head resting in his hand as he watched whatever TV show they were watching.  But his right knee was bouncing incessantly and he was chewing the inside of his lip.</p><p>Cas wasn’t much better, perched on the edge of the seat cushion, body and wings as still as a statue, obediently staring at the television without blinking and obviously not at all understanding what he was looking at.</p><p>Clearing his throat to break the tense silence, Dean waited until they had both turned to stare at him before rubbing the palms of his sweaty hands on his jeans.  “The doctor guy is here.  Er, Liam, I mean.  His name’s Liam.”</p><p>The change in Cas was immediate.  Somehow, his posture became even more rigid and when he stood it was mechanical and smooth, like a robot.  His expression was eerily blank, even more so than it had been all day, eyes lifeless and cold.</p><p>“Okay, let’s do this,” Sam said, failing to sound anything other than very, very tired.  He was carefully avoiding looking at Cas, perhaps just as unnerved by the lack of animation in his face as Dean was.</p><p>It was easy to forget what Cas used to be like, back when they’d first met him, but this went beyond even that.  Now there was just…nothing. </p><p>Dean was the first to walk out the door. Liam was standing about thirty feet away beside the silver Toyota Prius he rented.  As soon as the door opened, he’d taken a few steps towards them and the floodlight over the door was just enough to light the area well enough for everyone to see. </p><p>Liam had his hands in his pockets and gave Sam a smile and a nod in greeting, but as soon as Cas stepped over the threshold, he clasped his hands in front of him, lacing his fingers together in a way that made it clear he wasn’t holding anything.</p><p>Dean was suddenly nervous and he watched Cas as he climbed the steps, wings tight at his back, expression still blank. </p><p>The importance of this first encounter seemed critical.  Dean believed Liam could help them help Cas, but looking at the angel now, Dean wondered if Cas was past the point of even being able to accept help.</p><p>Cas stopped at the top of the steps, eyes trained on Liam, and even though there was no physical movement in his face, the intensity of his gaze had gone up several notches.</p><p>Dean took that as a good sign. </p><p>“Hello, Castiel,” Liam greeted gently.  “My name is Liam, and I’m glad to finally be meeting you.”</p><p>Cas stared, silent, unmoving, save for a gentle breeze that rustled a few of his feathers. </p><p>Liam peered at him through his glasses.  “You’ve got quite the hold on yourself at the moment, haven’t you?  I know it’s difficult, but I’m going to ask you to come back to us now.  We’re going to do it together, and we’re going to do it gently, alright? </p><p>Cas blinked – just once – and Liam raised a hand, palm out and facing Cas. “Gently, Castiel.  Do you feel that breeze?”</p><p>With jerky movements, almost as if he were fighting it, Cas’ face turned in to the gentle wind blowing through the clearing and subtly re-animated.  The changes were small – another blink, a slight pursing of his lips – but it was movement from marble and Dean felt relief wash through him.  Off to his left, Sam exhaled softly.</p><p>A moment later and Cas closed his eyes, relaxing further, tilting his head up and inhaling deeply as if trying to smell from what corner of the earth the gust of wind had originated.  Then, miraculously, most of the tension seemed to leave him all at once.  His shoulders and wings relaxed, the mask-like expression on his face vanished completely and when he opened his eyes, it was obvious he was present in a way he hadn’t been since handing his blade over to Sam.</p><p>“There, that’s much better isn’t it?” Liam asked, drawing Cas’ attention back to him.  He had an easy smile on his lips and reached up to push his glasses further up his nose, peering at Cas through them with bright, kind eyes.</p><p>Cas blinked and then gave such a tiny nod Dean almost missed it.  He didn’t say anything in return, the ever-present grace in his eyes glowing eerily in the dim light.  His face turned in to another breeze, chin tipping up and eyes fluttering, wings flexing and then resettling.</p><p>“Dean tells me you’ve been cooped up in the bunker for quite some time now,” Liam seemed unfazed by Cas lack of reaction to him.  “I’ve just spent nearly twenty four hours on planes and in cars, myself.” </p><p>Liam deliberately rolled his shoulders, then reached his arms wide in opposite directions, groaning with an over-exaggerated stretch.</p><p>Unexpectedly, it drew Cas’ attention right away, a flicker of something like envy on his face as he watched Liam stretching.  His left wing twitched and then, like someone who’d just seen someone else yawn, his wings suddenly spread wide, snapping out to either side of his body almost involuntarily.</p><p>Cas’ wings were sleek and <em>long</em>, their span exceeding what Dean would have ever guessed at. He mostly kept them tightly folded but now they were straining in opposite directions, mimicking Liam.  The longest feathers fanned out at the tips making the wings look serrated and dangerous.  In the dim orange-yellow glow of the flood light, the white feathers gleamed unnaturally bright, the black looked bottomless, and the blues looked deeper than ocean waters under stormy skies.</p><p>Cas turned away from them a bit, and Dean wondered why until he began to beat his wings, slow and powerful, the sound of it like the deep <em>whump whump whump</em> of helicopter blades.  It kicked up the dead leaves on the ground and they spun wildly in the vortexes generated by the force of his wingbeats.  Then, in what was probably the most human movement Dean had ever seen him make, Cas raised his arms and curled them over the top of his head, arching his back in a full body flex stretch.</p><p>And while Sam and Dean both took a few slack-jawed steps back, Liam stayed where he was, white hair and green coattails flapping wildly in the gale Cas was generating, peering intently through his glasses and observing with an intense frown like he was carefully analyzing a new puzzle.  His eyes flicked this way and that over Cas, likely taking in things Dean didn’t even know where there <em>to</em> take in. </p><p>It only lasted a few seconds, then Cas stopped, his wings suspended, arched out to either side like a bird that had just landed.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Better?” Liam asked knowingly.</p><p>Cas gave him a sidelong look and then a single nod.  He folded his wings halfway and then every single feather fluffed dramatically, all at once, making them look twice as big.  He shook them violently enough that his whole body jerked and he staggered a bit, before all the feathers settled back into place, laying smooth and flat and sleek once more.</p><p> Cas turned and eyed Liam warily.</p><p>“Dean and I have already spoken a great deal, but much of what I need to know, only you can tell me,” Liam continued, the only one out of the four of them that looked completely at ease.  “I understand you’re under the thumb of a rather nasty binding spell at the moment and I imagine you’re feeling quite powerless. We can talk about that later, but for now, I want you to understand that every question I ask, I ask only because it is important.  I want to help you, Castiel, and I get the sense that you’re not used to people wanting to help you.”</p><p>Cas looked down, still silent.</p><p>Liam took a slow, deliberate step closer and stopped when Cas looked back up at him, eyes narrowing as he took a mirroring step back. </p><p>Liam clasped his hands in front of him and stared intensely through his glasses.</p><p>“There’s a lot going on right now, isn’t there?  A new face, a new soul, new smells.  You feel unsure, you feel frightened – it’s all right,” Liam added quickly, with some amount of urgency, even though Cas hadn’t so much as blinked.</p><p>But his wings were tensing again, the tips drifting away from where they usually met in a point behind his calves.  And, Dean realised upon looking closer, he was no longer breathing.</p><p>“Calmly, now, there’s nothing to worry about,” Liam said, taking another step forward and stopping.  “Can you see me?”</p><p>Cas’ eyes slid away again and Liam frowned.  “Why did that question make you feel guilty?”</p><p>Dean looked to Sam, wondering just how the hell Liam was seeing whatever he was seeing. They’d known Cas for years and couldn’t read his micro expression this well.</p><p>“I’m not supposed to look at people’s souls,” Cas finally mumbled at the ground, shoulders and wings hunching a bit.</p><p>Ice spread through Dean’s stomach.  <em>He’d</em> told Cas not to do that.  He hadn’t thought it was anything important, he’d just thought it was something angels could do, like, <em>extra, </em>if they were feeling nosy.  He didn’t know what it meant that Liam was asking Cas to do that now, but it must be important, given the circumstances.  <em>Can you see me?</em>  What did that mean?</p><p>Liam’s frown softened, “Alright, well, that was a very unfair thing to ask of you and I am giving you my permission to look.  In fact, I am asking you to.”</p><p>Dean felt shame heating his face.  He’d been making so many mistakes without even realizing it. </p><p>Tentatively, Cas raised his gaze from the ground to Liam and stared for a moment without blinking.  The grace in his eyes pulsed softly and then his wings and shoulders relaxed once more.</p><p>“You see?”</p><p>Cas nodded.</p><p>“Sorry, what just happened?” Sam finally asked, looking both concerned and confused.</p><p>Almost as if he’d forgotten they were there, Liam blinked, looking over. </p><p>“Angels can read souls and sense intention, and even some emotion, from them.  I was just letting Castiel see for themselves that I mean no harm to them or to either of you and that I genuinely do want to help.”  He gave them a shrewd look, “Forbidding an angel from reading souls would be like trying to decipher someone’s mood and intentions with a blindfold on.”</p><p>Dean worked to unclench his jaw.  “Shit, I’m sorry, Cas.  I…I didn’t realize.”</p><p>“We all have different ways of perceiving the world around us,” Liam continued patiently.  “As humans, the thought of someone being able to look into our very soul seems like a terrible breach of privacy.  As an angel, Castiel is merely trying to understand your mood and emotions by reading them in their truest, most unfiltered form.  Angels cannot hear what you are not saying, they can’t ‘read between the lines’ and they don’t like to make assumptions because assumptions can be incorrect.  We humans are riddled with things like social pressure, personal shame, anxieties, and concerns over how others perceive us and it makes us talk in all kinds of ridiculous, elaborate, and illogical ways.  Angels want only to communicate clearly and effectively and do not, generally, tie emotion to information that needs to be delivered, they simply deliver it and expect the same in return.”</p><p>Another piece of Cas snapped into place inside his head.  How many times had Cas said something either totally inappropriate or at the absolute worst time, usually in front of normal people, only to look at Dean in confusion when he got upset about it.  Now he knew Cas had just been delivering information that needed to be delivered.  No wonder Cas barely spoke these days.</p><p>S<em>hit</em>.</p><p>Cas was staring at Liam with cautious intrigue.  Perhaps as impressed with Liam’s ability to translate for him so accurately as the brothers were.</p><p>“Are you alright to continue, Castiel?  I have a few questions I need to get out of the way before we can continue.”</p><p>Cas nodded but didn’t look pleased about it.</p><p>“Are you injured anywhere besides where you have to cut the sigil?”</p><p>Cas’ looked over at Dean, and again, Dean tried not to feel as if he had betrayed Cas somehow by telling Liam everything he had.  The sigil on his chest had fully healed, so the only reason Liam even knew there was one on his leg, out of sight, was because Dean had told him.</p><p>Looking back, Cas’ mouth opened but then snapped closed and he blinked rapidly several times before shaking his head in a jerky movement.</p><p>Liam nodded in understanding, taking another step forward and stopping again.  “I’m sorry, that was a bit too broad of a question.  Why don’t we start with your physical body, not the vessel, but <em>your</em> body.  Do you have any injuries, new or old, that are still affecting you in any way?”</p><p>For a moment Dean wasn’t sure Cas was going to answer.  A muscle jumped in his jaw and he swallowed as if the mere thought of telling a stranger about any weaknesses he had was going to make him physically ill.  Dean shifted, aching to at least be closer to the angel to lend some support, but he got the feeling Cas wouldn’t let him get close.</p><p>“I…lost…several eyes.  A few years ago.  On my left wing.” Cas managed to grind out in choppy sentences, clearly fighting against himself to get the words out.  “It’s not a blind spot but…sometimes I can’t always see well on that side.”</p><p>He was staring at the ground again, his face becoming less and less animated by the second.</p><p>“Can you tell me what happened?” Liam pushed, speaking softly now, watching closely as Cas began to withdraw again.  He took another step closer.</p><p>Cas raised his hand to the inside of his wing before aborting the movement, looking annoyed, his expression hardening further and wings folding tighter.  “I can’t remember much,” he said with a voice lacking inflection.  “I was weak and under a witch’s curse.  Some angels found me and they took them when I refused to give them Sam and Dean’s location.”</p><p>“They took your eyes?” Liam clarified, staring intently.</p><p>Cas pursed his lips, “Yes.”</p><p>Sam exhaled sharply beside him and Dean didn’t need to look to know what his brother was feeling in that moment because he was feeling the same thing himself.  And hearing Cas talking about the angels ‘taking his eyes’ so plainly, as if it were no big deal, really made it that much more significant that he couldn’t talk about what Metatron did to him without shutting down completely.</p><p>“Thank you for telling me that; I know it was difficult, but I need you to answer one last question for me.” Liam worried his bottom lip it in the first sign of uncertainty he’d shown since arriving.  “Can you tell me about your grace?  Do you have any injuries there, besides the binding?”</p><p>Cas’ mask cracked a little, uncertainty and a flash of something too close to fear for Dean’s liking flickering over his face.  When he saw Cas’ hand twitch upward, he just <em>knew</em> Cas had almost reached for his throat.  He wondered what was going through the angel’s head and wondered what he could possibly say to help make him feel safer.</p><p>Liam spoke before he could think of anything.</p><p>“Remember that you are safe here, Castiel.  Keep watching my soul.  Good. That’s very good.  You see?  I only want to understand what happened so that I can do my best not to trigger any of those memories for you.  I don’t want you taken by surprise because someone could end up hurt. Do you understand?”</p><p>Cas nodded, swallowing.  Of course he understood.  It’s part of the reason they were all in this situation in the first place.</p><p>“Would it be easier if you showed me?” Liam tapped two fingers to his own forehead.  </p><p>There was a tense few moments where no one moved.  Cas looked mildly relived at the prospect of not having to explain what Metatron had done out loud – which he had not yet been able to do successfully – and wary of having to get close enough to Liam to touch him. </p><p>But eventually, Cas’ apparent growing distaste for using words won out and he took one halting step forward, his bare feet silent in the bed of dirt, pine needles, and leaves that covered the ground.  Slowly, as if he was worried Liam was going to bite his hand off, he extended his arm.</p><p>Liam smiled encouragingly, hands still clasped in front of him so Cas could see them, and then he closed his eyes as Cas’ index and middle finger touched his skin.</p><p>Sam and Dean both watched, tense and scared to move less it shatter the bit of trust Cas had managed to scrape together to show Liam one of his most horrific memories.</p><p>A few moments of silence passed while both Liam and Cas stood with eyes closed and heads bowed, until Cas pulled away with a sudden, ragged gasp and Liam swayed forward as if tethered by some invisible string tied to Cas’ fingers.</p><p>Turning his back to all of them, Cas moved away, wings folded so tight the tips were crossing. </p><p>Liam scrubbed at his eyes under his glasses and sniffed, readjusting them. </p><p>His hands were shaking.</p><p>“Is…is everything ok?”  Sam asked, sounding like he knew how stupid the question was given everything that was going on.</p><p>“Oh yes,” Liam assured them with a watery smile that wasn’t as reassuring as he probably hoped it was.  “Castiel just projected a very traumatic experience from their point of view into my mind.  It was only a shadow of what they felt themselves, but it was upsetting non the less.” He heaved a great gust of air from his lungs.  “Well, I think that is enough work for now.  I don’t know about you lot, but I desperately need a cup of tea.”</p><p>Cas turned, eyes downcast and lifeless, to follow them back to the door and hesitating before stepping over the threshold.</p><p>Dean’s heart gave an aching beat.  He wished they at least had some windows they could open for a little fresh air.  Cas obviously felt helplessly trapped and Dean tried to close the door as gently as possible but it still clanged like a jail cell when the mechanism fell in to place. Cas flinched, shoulders hunching, knuckles white where he was gripping the banister.</p><p>“It’s not locked,” Liam suddenly said from the floor below.  He was staring up at Cas, watching his every move like a hawk.  “You can leave whenever you wish.”</p><p>Dean opened his mouth, having some very immediate issues with that promise because Cas was beyond vulnerable right now.  He absolutely could <em>not</em> just wander around outside by himself whenever he wanted.  What if a demon or an angel or something else found him and discovered he <em>literally</em> had to do whatever he was told?</p><p>Hell <em>no! </em>He could <em>not</em> go outside!</p><p>He was just filling his lungs to declare as much when Sam, who was standing just behind Liam, shot him the most vicious ‘<em>keep your fucking mouth shut</em>’ glare Dean had seen in a long time and only then did he realise that Cas was staring up at him guardedly.</p><p>He swallowed, meeting the angel’s eye and feeling the outrage leave him as suddenly as it had come.  Cas didn’t believe them, he realized.  He knew he was trapped here.  Hell, Dean had literally forbidden him from leaving until this was all sorted out.</p><p>Looking at Cas now, seeing the resignation in his deep blue eyes, seeing the way his shoulders and wings and face were already tense again, made Dean’s fears seem so much less important.</p><p>Cas had literally come back to life after stepping outside.  How could he take that away from him?</p><p>“It’s not locked,” he managed to choke out.  “It’ll never be locked, Cas, I promise.”</p><p>Blue eyes darted from him, to the door, and back again, looking unconvinced.  Cas turned and descended the stairs without a word, skirting around the far side of the table and putting as much distance between himself and everyone else as possible.</p><p>Squashing a wave of disappointment, Dean reminded himself of what Liam had said.  They had to go slow, this would take time.  Cas’ mind and body had been meticulously ravaged over the course years and years, and his trust in them had gone through the same punishment.  This wasn’t a clean cut, it was an infected wound that had poisoned them.  I was going to need the proper care.</p><p>He was strong, Sam was strong, and Cas was strong.  They would get through his, he told himself for what felt like the hundredth time. </p><p>But they couldn’t let that infection spread any more than it already had.</p><p>Instead of obsessing over it, he chose to shift his focus back to Cas, who had an unusual expression of both suspicion and curiosity on his face while he watched Liam open his tattered briefcase at the end of the table.</p><p>It had been a long time since he’d seen that look on the angel’s face, and Dean hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.  He recalled, fondly now but annoyed back then, watching Cas pulling everything out of his toiletry bag and inspecting each item like the lost relics of some ancient civilization. Or staring through a most intense frown while he tried to understand the philosophical message he assumed was hidden somewhere in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  He’d watched Cas blink with wide-eyed fascination the first time Bobby happened to make a pot of coffee while he was there, head tilting when the percolator gurgled at him.  He’d grinned when Cas had once pulled the cap off his tooth paste and sniffed it, recoiling.  <em>You should not put chemicals like this in your mouth</em>, <em>Dean</em>.</p><p>Trying to explain how to use the washing machine had been a half day adventure.  Cas didn’t need to know, of course, he’d just been curious.</p><p>Dean was so relieved to see something besides that creepy blank expression on his face he nearly fell down the stairs, the need to somehow encourage the angel to start being curious about stuff again was so intense it was almost painful.</p><p>Liam glanced over at Cas with a small smile and a lingering stare, before he looked over at Sam and grinned.  “Now, I mean no offense when I say this, but I brought my own tea.”  He pulled a Ziplock baggie from within his case, stuffed to the brim with tea bags.</p><p>Sam just laughed. </p><p>Apparently unable to help himself, Cas had taken a few more steps towards Liam, but his gaze was laser-focused on the briefcase, a deep frown on his face. He stopped short and took half a step back when Liam looked at him again.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Liam assured him gently, motioning for Cas to come closer.  “The smell is quite intriguing isn’t it?  It’s the tea I brought for you.”</p><p>Cas blinked, his frown smoothing into his ‘<em>I don’t understand’</em> face while Liam produced a metal tin from within his case and popped the top off, tipping it down so Cas could see there was, in fact, loose leaf tea and dried fruit inside.  </p><p>Liam was smiling brightly.  “Nice, isn’t it?  I mixed it myself.  One part dried figs, one part dried doum, one part valeria root, two parts poppy seed extract and three parts nightshade.  And a sprinkle of dried rose petals for a bit of color.”</p><p>“Uh, isn’t nightshade poisonous?” Dean asked, concerned, as he stopped next to Cas.           </p><p>“To humans, yes. For angels, nightshade and poppy seed extract are potent muscle relaxants.  The fruits and flowers are both tasty <em>and</em> a strong aromatherapeutic relaxant.  Here,” he took a slow step forward still holding the tin out to Cas, “Give it a good smell so you know there’s nothing dangerous in it.”</p><p>After a moment of deliberation, Cas finally closed the distance between he and Liam just enough to be able to reach out and grab the tin; then hesitantly, he brought it just under his nose.</p><p>“Alright?” Liam asked sincerely and when Cas gave him a tiny nod he clapped his hands together, looking delighted that Cas had accepted his gift. “Excellent, why don’t you show me to the kitchen and we can all enjoy a hot cuppa?”</p><p>There was a single tea pot in the entire bunker and Dean pulled it from the back of one of the cupboards, dusting it off as surreptitiously as possible.  While they had been drinking a lot more tea lately, they usually just made it one cup at a time, something he thought Liam may quietly judge them for, and he felt like he had already disappointed the man enough.  With the strong grandfather professor vibes, Dean felt strangely compelled to not let him down by letting him see their dusty, unloved, tea pot.</p><p>While the kettle boiled, Cas stood at the counter beside Dean, picking through the tin and inspecting bits of dried fruit.  At the table, Liam and Sam sat across from each other and chatted quietly about Liam’s very long journey from the UK.</p><p>“I loath airports,” Liam was saying, “The smell, the noise, the constant screeching over the speakers.  Dreadful.  But it’s better than travelling by boat, I suppose.  I remember when that was the only option.  The smell…I really can’t even describe it, so I know I shouldn’t complain.”</p><p>Sam and Dean both stared at him.</p><p>“How old are you?” Dean asked because he was the tactless one.</p><p>Liam grinned.  “Three hundred and twenty-three!  Don’t look a day over sixty, do I?  It’s unfortunate that I discovered the magic on my sixtieth birthday.  I’m stuck with these wrinkles forever, I’m afraid.” he chuckled. </p><p>Dean felt his hackles rising and tried to ignore them.  “Are…are you a witch?”</p><p>Liam opened his mouth, but it was Cas, once again smelling his little tin of tea, that simply stated, “No.” from behind Dean.</p><p>Liam smiled.  “He’s quite right.  He’d have been able to see the magic woven into my soul the moment he looked.  No, the magic was cast <em>upon</em> me by a white witch.  I had known her for ages and expressed my disappointment that I felt my life would be coming to an end much too soon and that I still had so much work I wanted to do.  She offered me a solution.”</p><p>“So you’re just gonna live forever?” Dean asked, incredulous.</p><p>“Well no, I can still be killed, of course.  I simply wont die of old age.  As long as I am careful, I will be able to continue my work for an exceptionally long time.”</p><p>Sam laced his fingers together, “So what does your work involve?  Crowley wasn’t very clear.”</p><p>With a smirk, Liam said, “That is because Crowley does not know.  He knows I work with angels and have for a long time, but that is mostly it.  No, I was a psychologist for two lifetimes, always moving on before people could get suspicious of how I wasn’t growing older.  I loved it.  I was helping people, you know?  But then I met Adriel and everything changed.  They fell, literally and metaphorically, into the edge of the estate I was occupying at the time.  They were…severely injured.  I wasn’t sure what to do, or how to help.  By then I had <em>some</em> knowledge on angels but only that which I could get from books and legends.  So I brought them inside, made them as comfortable as possible, and hoped for the best.  I kept them safe and, eventually they came around enough to tell me how to help them start to heal.”</p><p>Dean and Sam shared a look, and Dean had to make an effort not to look over at Cas still standing next to him at the counter.  Why could Adriel explain what they needed and Cas couldn’t?  Following their train of thought like the professional psychologist he was, Liam smiled sadly.</p><p>“I was lucky.  Adriel was a healer and they had the knowledge and the training on what needed to be done to save their life.  Essentially, Adriel was a doctor and, step by step, he taught me how to be a nurse.” He smiled.</p><p>Feeling so stupid, but less so when Sam’s expression said he felt the same, Dean suddenly realised that if he had a heart attack, he certainly wouldn’t be able to tell Sam what they needed to do to fix it.  They’d go to a friggin’ doctor.  Why would they think it would be any different with Cas?  Why would he think that every angel knew exactly how their bodies worked down to an atomic level? </p><p>Angels were different from humans in a lot of ways and Dean had just assumed that meant they were different in <em>every</em> way.  But the more Liam talked, the more Cas was transforming in Dean’s mind from this untouchable, incomprehensible, blurry being…to something organic that had a physical form and had to follow the same rules of biology that any other living thing did.</p><p>“Once Adriel had taught me the basics, they then began to teach me a bit <em>more</em>.  Then they started bringing other angels to me; ones that were injured either in mind or body, or both.   With Adriel’s knowledge of how to heal physical wounds and my knowledge of how to heal mental wounds we began trying to…repair some of the damage.”</p><p>Sam frowned, eyes alight with intrigue as he leaned forward, “What damage?”</p><p>But Liam cast a glance behind Dean, staring at Cas through his glasses for a moment.  “I think we’ll save that topic for another time.  It has been an emotionally trying day and we have all made good progress so far.  Let’s have some tea, end the day on that positive note, and then get some well-deserved rest.  I don’t know about you all, but I’m knackered.”</p><p>Agreeing wholeheartedly, Dean busied himself with putting a tea bag into each of three mugs and ignoring how deeply the fatigue from the day was settling into the marrow of his bones.  He wondered what the progress was that <em>he</em> was supposed to have made.  He’d basically just stood by with his mouth hanging open while Liam had gently coaxed some life back into Cas.  Dean felt like he’d been no help at all and he hoped he’d be able to pick up on this color language thing fast.  He <em>missed</em> Cas.  Lately, even when the angel was standing right next to him, it felt like he was in some terrible, inaccessible place that Dean couldn’t reach.  He missed the confused head tilts when his bad jokes didn’t land.  He missed Cas poking at weird human things and asking what they were for.  He missed Cas’ blue eyes seeking him out on the rare occasion they were in a social situation and Cas got lost in the body language and subtext of the conversation.</p><p>He just <em>missed</em> him.  And it hurt different than missing someone who was gone.  Missing someone that was standing right next to you was nearly unbearable.</p><p>He turned to fix the fourth mug for Cas and found the angel already looking at him and it had been such a <em>long</em> time since he last found those blue eyes staring into his like <em>that</em> that it was momentarily the only thing he <em>could</em> see.</p><p>Cas blinked at him in that owlish, innocent way he sometimes did when he clearly had nothing else to do but stare at Dean and <em>fuck</em> but that was good to see.</p><p>Dean felt his lips pulling in a gentle smile, “Hey, Cas.”</p><p>“Hello, Dean.”</p><p>Dean pressed his hand into the counter, feeling dizzy with relief and something else intangible that was hard to hold on to long enough to identify.  Eventually, he remembered why he’d turned to Cas in the first place, and he gestured to the tin in the angel’s hand.  “Can I make you some tea?”</p><p>As if he’d forgotten he was even holding it, Cas blinked and looked down, then slowly held it out for Dean to take.</p><p>“Only a small amount, Dean,” Liam advised him, “It’s quite potent.” </p><p>He glanced over his shoulder, sure that ‘poppy seed extract’ was just a Whole Foods way of saying ‘opium’ and was unnerved to find the man staring between him and Cas with an intensity that rivaled the angel’s.  His fingers were laced together on the table, but his knuckles were white and he was hardly blinking, as if worried he might miss something if he did.</p><p>Sam was rubbing his forehead like he had a headache.</p><p>Ignoring the suddenly weird vibe as best he could, Dean grabbed a pinch of the angel tea, as he’d decided to call it, and added it to the fourth cup, then filled all of them with hot water from the kettle.</p><p>Once they were all sitting down with their respective mugs – Cas next to Sam and Dean next to Liam – Dean gestured to Cas’ cup and said, trying not to laugh at his own joke.  “Hey, Doc, if you ever decide to market this stuff, you should call it Halle-<em>brew</em>-jah.  Get it? Like Hallelujah?”</p><p>One corner of Cas’ mouth twisted up immediately and he dropped his eyes to his cup. Behind him, the feathers all along the leading edges of his wings fluffed and Dean suddenly felt as if his lungs were full of helium.</p><p>“I knew you’d laugh at one of my jokes eventually!”</p><p>Cas shook his head, still with that little half smile, and readjusted his grip on the mug so both hands were touching as much of it as possible.  His wings, still a bit fluffy, curled around his shoulders.  But there was a distinct difference in the movement this time that Dean wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint if asked, and he knew it wasn’t because Cas was subconsciously trying to hide.  He was cold.</p><p>His stomach dropped.  In the chaos of the last twenty-four hours, he’d forgotten to try and modify a sweater for him.</p><p>“This will help you feel more relaxed,” Liam told Cas from across the table. “And should help you get better rest when you sleep.”</p><p>Cas nodded, raising the cup and inhaling the steam rising off the top.  He closed his eyes, shoulders relaxing, and then took a sip.</p><p>Dean was ready to hear a comment about it tasting like molecules but Cas simply made a soft sound of appreciation and licked the corner of his mouth as if chasing the taste of something particularly sweet before taking a second mouthful like he was actually enjoying the taste.</p><p>“I’m glad you like it,” Liam said sincerely, looking genuinely chuffed.  “Drink it slowly, the effects may come on a bit suddenly.”</p><p>No sooner had he said it than Cas set the mug back down with a <em>thunk</em> and swayed on his stool.</p><p>All three of them moved at once, as if Cas were a priceless piece of art about to topple off its display.</p><p>Dean managed to catch him under the arms before he fell backwards, getting a face full of soft feathers before they too, drooped.  He could feel the base of Cas’ wings sitting in the crook of each of his elbows.  The muscles were flexing sluggishly, the nightshade obviously doing it’s job, but it was easy to <em>feel</em> the power usually masked by their delicate appearance.</p><p>Cas suddenly gave up trying to hold himself up and leaned back against Dean’s chest with a sigh, his head falling back to rest on Dean’s shoulder as he went alarmingly limp in Dean’s arms.</p><p>Now effectively spooning the angel from behind in their kitchen, Dean felt heat flare in his face.        </p><p> “Ok, what’s the plan here, guys?” he barked gruffly.</p><p>Liam was hovering like a worried grandma, a frown etched into the deep lines in his face.  “I don’t understand, that shouldn’t have been enough to knock him out like this,” he told them. </p><p>“Well, he’s not exactly in peak shape, maybe it just hit him harder than it normally would? Sam asked.  He placed a hand on Cas’ shoulder, worry creasing his eyes.</p><p>“It’s nothing to do with the strength they have it’s a simple dosage calculation based on physical mass.  Castiel is a seraph, correct?”</p><p>When Sam and Dean both nodded, Liam only looked more concerned.</p><p>Cas’ head lolled, his face resting against the side of Dean’s neck and – though he would take it to his grave – Dean’s heart skipped a beat.</p><p>“He’s out cold,” Sam observed, giving the angel’s shoulder a shake and getting no response.</p><p>“Jesus Christ, we went to the zoo to get elephant tranquilizers and could have been knocking him out with a cup of chai?!  Friggin’ angels…” Dean grumbled, mostly out of worry.  He readjusted his grip and tried not to notice how warm Cas’ skin was under his hands.  He always kinda thought angels would just be the temperature of whatever room they were in – not that he’d thought about it much.  Even his feathers were warm. </p><p>And soft. </p><p>Like <em>stupid</em> soft. </p><p><em>Ridiculously</em> soft.</p><p>“Well, it won’t hurt them, but they’ll be out for a while.  Dean, you said Castiel has their own room?” Liam prompted. </p><p>It took some doing, but eventually the brothers managed to get Cas down all the hallways and into his nest while Liam hovered behind them anxiously.  But he paused in the doorway to the bedroom, watching as Sam and Dean stepped over the edge of the nest of blankets and settled Cas down as gently as they could.  Breathing hard, Dean’s hand lingered on Cas’ shoulder, hoping for some sign of life but knowing he would get none.</p><p> It was unsettling, when you were friends with someone who’s only sign of life when unconscious was that they hadn’t exploded.</p><p>“I thought you said Castiel hadn’t built a nest,” Liam said from the doorway.</p><p>“We made it for him,” Sam explained, stepping back out onto the floor.  “He was sleeping a lot and he doesn’t exactly fit on a regular bed so…”</p><p>Liam nodded, pursing his lips and staring at Cas’ limp form from the doorway, looking more and more concerned the longer he stared.  “Well, if they reacted that strongly to such a small amount of tea then they’ll be asleep for several hours.  Don’t worry, it will be good for them to get some good rest.”</p><p>“I’d be a lot less worried if <em>you</em> didn’t look so worried,” Dean couldn’t help but quip.  With a final sweeping look over Cas to make sure he looked comfortable, Dean stood and joined Sam and Liam in the open doorway.</p><p>Licking his lips – effectively making the brothers even more worried – Liam said, “There are only two reasons I can think of for that dosage to have affected him so heavily.  Either he is dangerously underweight, or he is much smaller than your average seraph.”</p><p>Sam huffed a laugh, looking unsure if Liam had just made a joke and Dean couldn’t help but share the sentiment.</p><p>Liam looked between them both, his eyebrows climbing.  “What is funny about that?”</p><p>“Well, angels don’t eat,” Sam said.  “How can something that doesn’t eat be underweight?”</p><p>Now Liam looked as if he thought Sam might be joking.  Given the seriousness of the situation, he also looked annoyed about it.  “Angels eat.  Of course they eat.  They’re living creatures.”</p><p>Faltering, Sam glanced at Dean. “But…Cas <em>told</em> us angels don’t eat.”</p><p>Liam frowned, looking between the brothers to where Cas was laying in his nest, working through the puzzle, before his face smoothed.  “When he said this, were you trying to get him to eat human food?”</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>Liam looked relieved.  “Angels eat <em>souls</em>.”</p><p>Through the shock of that statement, yet more pieces of Cas fell into place in Dean’s head.</p><p>“Angels eat souls,” Sam parroted flatly, looking just as shocked at the revelation as Dean was. </p><p>Liam waited, patient and professional, while they wrapped their heads around it.  And Dean had questions, he really did, but there was too much swirling around in his head and he was just too tired to sort through it all.  Angels – Cas – ate souls like humans ate food? Had Cas been…been consuming human souls in secret all this time?  He thought back to when Cas had opened purgatory for the power of the souls and just didn’t understand.</p><p>“Ok, I’m spiralling here, doc.  You gotta explain how this works before I lose my mind.” He laughed nervously.</p><p>“Oh!  Apologies! Yes, angels eat souls, but they don’t need to eat much.  One human soul could last them several years and it’s not at all like how you and I need to eat.  A soul is like a battery and an angel’s system uses them very efficiently.  However, just like any other living creature, if the energy source is depleted, an angel’s body will start using up stores of power and then, when that is gone, it will start consuming the body itself and they will begin to starve.  Do you know when the last time was that Castiel ate?”</p><p>Sam and Dean shared a look.  “’Bout seven years ago,” Dean responded tightly, a headache building behind his eyes.  “Remember that whole purgatory thing I told you about?”</p><p>Liam nodded. “Ah.  But he returned those souls, didn’t he?”</p><p>“Oh…yeah.”</p><p>“So when would he have eaten before that?”</p><p>“We didn’t really have that kind of relationship back then,” Sam huffed a disquieted laugh, glancing over his shoulder at Cas’ unmoving form.</p><p>Looking concerned again, Liam sighed.  “So, we know he probably hasn’t eaten in at <em>least</em> seven years.”</p><p>“Unless he…” Dean felt awful even saying it. “Unless he did and we just don’t know about it.”</p><p>But Liam regarded him shrewdly from overtop his glasses.  “From what you described to me, that was a horrifically traumatising experience for all three of you.  Given both their ingrained need to please you both <em>and</em> learned fear of disappointing you, do you think that Castiel’s conscience would have allowed them to consume human souls in secret after that?”</p><p>Dean closed his eyes, unsure of how many more gut-wrenching revelations he could take.  “This is so fucked up.”</p><p>“Enough of that,” Liam whisper-snapped, glancing at Cas again.  “We will be discussing this in depth <em>later</em>.  Stop jumping to conclusions and keep your mind open.  You have asked me here for a reason and it is because you do not understand your friend <em>at all</em>.  Now, I can help you, but you <em>must</em> stop filling in the gaps in your knowledge on your own.  We’ll get there.”</p><p>Dean nodded quickly.  Liam was right, of course.</p><p>Liam readjusted his glasses and ran a hand down the front of his wool coat, absently smoothing out some creases.</p><p>“Ok so,” Sam licked his lips, brain nearly whirring audibly, “So him being underweight was one possibility.  The other one you said was…he’s smaller than most angels or something?  What does that mean?”</p><p>“Simply that.  He may not be a fully grown seraph yet and so is much smaller than the dosage I prepared for him.”</p><p>“Uhh…but…” Dean tried to get his mouth to work but his brain was much too tired and much too full.</p><p>Liam looked between them with growing uncertainty, as if suddenly questioning if they really knew Cas as much as they had told him they did.</p><p>“Castiel is very young.  Did…did you not know that?”</p><p>Throwing another glance over at Cas, Sam frowned.  “Like…like <em>how</em> young?”</p><p>“Well, when angels are first created, every feather is pure white.  A blank canvas, so to speak.  As they grow and their grace develops, each molt replaces some of the feathers with each angel’s individual colors.  Like a fingerprint.  When their grace is fully developed, their wings will no longer have any white feathers left and they will stop growing.”</p><p>All three of them turned their heads to stare at Cas where, in the light from the hallway, it was easy to see the entirely white undersides of his wings where he lay on his back.</p><p>“I’ve never worked with an angel with any white left in their wings before.  I don’t know much about determining their age, we’ll have to ask them when they wake up.  My concern is that, even if Castiel hasn’t fully matured, they should at least be large enough that that dosage would have been fine.”</p><p>“So what does that mean?”</p><p>Liam shook his head.  “All I can do is guess, but I have worked with enough humans raised in war zones to know that constant trauma can have a devastating impact on how we develop physically as well as mentally.  I’ll need more information from Castiel about their past and I’ll need to get a look at their true form before I can be sure, but I can say with some confidence that our dosage problem may be both a weight issue and an age issue.”</p><p>Liam looked equally as concerned as he did fascinated, muttering about fetching his notes from the car and getting to work while Sam and Dean stood shoulder to shoulder and stared at Cas, sound asleep in his nest.</p><p>“I’m so lost,” Sam admitted.  “Cas is like…a billion years old.  How can he still have his baby feathers?”</p><p>Dean grunted, “I dunno and I don’t have the brain power left to even be curious about it right now.  I gotta get some sleep man, can you pick a room for Liam and show him where the bathroom is and shit?  I just…I’m done for the day.”</p><p>He could feel Sam’s concerned gaze on the side of his face while he rubbed the palms of his hands into his eyes.</p><p>“Yeah, of course.”  Sam clapped him on the shoulder, “See you tomorrow.”</p><p>Then Dean was alone, standing there staring at Cas and wondering how someone so familiar could feel like such a stranger.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>The stunning art of Cas' beautiful wings and beautful face by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ellabrennanbutler/">Ella</a></p><p>&lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thank you so, so much to <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ellabrennanbutler/?hl=en">Ella</a> and <a href="https://angelfishofthelord.tumblr.com/">Angelfishofthelord</a> for beta reading. This chapter almost killed me and they are literally the only reason it could even be posted i s2g</p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p>Art By <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ellabrennanbutler/?hl=en">Ella</a></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Castiel blinked into the dark, wondering what had woken him.  The fuzzy memory of being comfortable and warm and <em>asleep</em> hovered only seconds in the past.  He nuzzled into his feathers, trying to recapture the feeling.</p><p>He pulled his knees in and folded his arms against his chest, fluffing his feathers for more warmth even though he was very warm already.  It hadn’t been that long since the last time he’d been without his grace, shivering in the rain in a dark alley and wondering how the damp and cold had worked itself so deeply into his bones. He’d forgotten how cold the world was when he was without that fire in his chest.</p><p>The walls of his nest cradled him on all sides, and he sighed, reveling in the feeling of security, before reaching for the comforting current of his grace.</p><p>A crushing force ground his muscles against his bones, and he screamed, the suddenness of it even more jarring than the pain.</p><p>He lashed out, but was quickly brought to heel when the binding pressed him down, down, <em>down,</em> until he was nothing but a flickering candle in a vast cave.</p><p>Jörmungandr had woken.</p><p>Breathless and gasping against his feathers, Castiel could only wait while the serpent slowly released him.</p><p>He had no doubt now, that this binding wasn’t <em>just</em> magic.  It couldn’t be.  It was too…too <em>something</em> Castiel couldn’t identify.  He just knew from the feel of it; a spell so primitive couldn’t be this tangible, this visceral.  He could <em>feel</em> the catch and drag of the world serpent’s scales gliding over his feathers; could <em>hear</em> the hiss of its breath in his ears; could <em>smell</em> the rot on its tongue.  Castiel had been bound before; he’d been under the effects of spells, curses, and any number of magics.  None of it had felt like this.</p><p>His grace shuddered deep within him, writhing like a rabbit trying to free itself from a snare.  He tried not to panic, but it was difficult when the slightest movement might provoke an attack.</p><p>Reaching down, Castiel rubbed his hand over his thigh and felt nothing but smooth, unbroken skin under the soft fabric.  Well, that explained it.  The sigil had healed completely while he slept.  He spit an Enochian curse.  That tea had been potent, and he’d slept right through the usual warning signs that the sigil was starting to lose its effectiveness.</p><p>Still, he grudgingly admitted that he felt well-rested.  Though, that too had its downsides.  It was easier not to care about anything when you were too tired to think straight.</p><p>Castiel’s energy wasn’t the only thing that was renewed with a good night’s sleep.  He pushed himself to his feet and tried to smother a surge of anger and was only partially successful. Once again he cursed the barbaric humans that had created this spell and didn’t have the decency to still be alive so Castiel could burn the meat from their bones.</p><p>Not only was he captive, underground, and a slave to whoever wished him to be, he now had to face the fact that he’d given away his last shred of independence when he handed his blade over to the brothers.  Granted, it needed to be done, but that didn’t make it less irritating.  The serpent had him well and truly ensnared and Castiel couldn’t even do the one thing that would free him.  He’d have to find Sam and Dean and get them to draw the sigil <em>for</em> him.</p><p>It was humiliating and he didn’t want to have to sit with that shame.  He <em>wanted</em> to put up those walls again. He <em>wanted</em> to push out everything he was feeling and not have to deal with it.  But Liam had asked him not to do that anymore and, because Liam was clever, he’d framed the hold Castiel’s emotions had on him as the enemy. </p><p>Castiel did not hide from his enemies.</p><p>He pulled some air through his nose, picking out the unique notes of both Sam and Dean’s scents right away.  Less noticeable was Liam’s, with a strong smell of wool and black tea.</p><p>With a put-upon sigh and resentment towards his predicament simmering in his belly, Castiel moved to the closed door.</p><p>He could do this.  He <em>would</em> do this.</p><p>When he stepped into the hallway, he was looking up at the red backup lights in confusion and wondering why they were on, and so didn’t realise the floor was covered in glass until it was cutting icy gashes into the bottoms of his feet.</p><p>He gasped, pain shot up his legs, and stumbled into the wall.</p><p>He’d obviously blown the lights in his panic. In the eerie red glow, the floor glittered menacingly and Castiel couldn’t help but appreciate the symbolism.  Though he was beginning to tire of the universe’s sense of humor.  The path ahead was indeed going to be painful.</p><p>Castiel steeled himself and took one bloody, slippery step after another, each one driving more glass into the soles of his feet.  He could feel the shards grinding against each other under his skin and he clenched his jaw against the sickening feel of it.  He braced his hand and wing against the wall in a futile attempt to take some of his weight.</p><p>Somewhere in the bunker, he heard a door slam and someone called his name.</p><p>In the red glow, his blood looked black against the floor and for a moment his shredded feet refused to carry him forward another step.</p><p>But the feeling of scales sliding over his feathers was almost worse than the glass in his skin. He <em>had</em> to keep going.  He couldn’t let Jörmungandr just <em>have</em> him.  He had to find Sam and Dean. </p><p>He opened his mouth to call out, to let them know he was coming, to fetch his blade, because they had to re-carve the sig-</p><p>Jörmungandr tried to kill him then and there, Castiel was sure of it.  Under the strength of the serpent’s coils, his bones cracked and his guts were pulverized, but nothing prepared him for the icy pressure of fangs sliding into his brain like a hot knife through butter.</p><p>Able only to scream against the invasion, Castiel lost track of his vessel; he only knew he’d collapsed because of the jarring impact of hitting the floor.</p><p>His bruised heart stuttered in his chest and Castiel knew for certain that he had lost.</p><p>Finally, with no other choice, he surrendered.</p><hr/><p>It was sometime later, seconds or centuries, it was impossible to tell, that he became aware of someone calling his name.  He tried to determine if the voice was coming from up, down, or somewhere off-side, but wasn’t even sure where <em>he</em> existed in space.  Was he facing up or down?  Where <em>was</em> his face?  Did he even still have one?  Had he <em>ever</em> had one?</p><p>He couldn’t be sure.</p><p>Needle-like stabs in the back and sides of his head shot pain down his spine, orienting him in time and space like the snap of an elastic band.</p><p>So, he had a head.  He reasoned that meant he probably had everything that came with having a head too, like a body and a brain.</p><p>He was on his back – that was a bad start – and laying on a cold, concrete floor – an even worse start.  Groaning with the sheer amount of effort it took to move, Castiel pushed his left wing and elbow into the floor and rolled over.  Sharp heat spread through his chest, seeping down his arms and legs. He wondered if he was in a burning building.</p><p>The temperature of the floor was the least of his worries when he became aware of the throbbing pressure in his head.  It felt as if he’d been stabbed through the skull with an angel blade and somehow survived it.</p><p>It also felt like the sword was still lodged deep in his brain.</p><p>Castiel was truly afraid to move.  Had he gotten into a fight?  Had he run into other angels?  Was he being tortured again?  It certainly felt like it.</p><p>Gingerly, he lifted his arm and carefully felt around his head.  There was blood, a lot of it, mating his hair and coating his hand, but he didn’t feel anything protruding from his skull.</p><p><em>Open your eyes, at least</em>, he scolded himself.  <em>You’re not dead, figure out your next move, soldier</em>.</p><p>The thought calmed him.  He <em>wasn’t</em> dead, though he was quite sure something had <em>tried</em> to kill him, if his current condition was any indication.  If only he could remember something.  Something that would explain why his skin was burning or why his head felt like it had been cleaved in two.</p><p>But no, he wasn’t dead. He didn’t want to give his attacker time to figure that out.</p><p>Peeling his eyelids open felt as monumental as the breaking up of Pangea.</p><p>Oh, he was indoors, that much was obvious right away; he was staring at the space where a polished concrete floor met an ugly grey-bricked wall.  But the eerie red glow was concerning.  Was…was he in hell?  Some of the halls he had walked with Crowley had a similar color scheme.</p><p>He swallowed, desperately hoping that wasn’t the case. Unfortunately, it was a likely possibility; he was in hell a <em>lot.  </em>More often than an angel should be.</p><p>Castiel lifted his head and…oh, all those stabbing pins and needles were, in fact, shards of glass, many of which were now embedded into his body.</p><p>Booted feet were thundering towards him and Castiel doubled his efforts to <em>get the fuck up</em> with renewed urgency.  He pressed his hands and wings into the floor and gasped, feeling more glass splitting his skin, feeling blood dripping from his head and onto his face, into his eyes. He groaned, trying to separate himself from the pain, but it was everywhere; outside him, inside him.  It was <em>part</em> of him. His stomach heaved when his vision swam.</p><p>Glass crunched under a boot next to his head and he flinched.</p><p>“Don’t move!  Don’t move!”</p><p>That was a lofty order, when so much of the floor was slick with his blood.  Still, he froze obediently, unsure of why he was doing so.  Wasn’t he supposed to be trying to escape?</p><p>There was frantic muttering above him but Castiel couldn’t make out the words.</p><p>His wings were lifted, then he himself, and then the floor was gone, taking his point of contact with the world with it.  Head spinning, Castiel was once again unable to tell up from down.  Blood was wet and icy-cold on his skin, covering every inch of him.  And that wasn’t good.  He was still fighting to understand just when and where in the universe he was at the moment, but he at least knew that many wounds was <em>bad</em>.  If he had any chance of surviving this, he would have to heal himself.       </p><p>Castiel reached for his grace without thinking.  </p><p>He was reminded of Jörmungandr’s presence when the serpent’s fangs pierced his brain.</p><p>He screamed behind clenched teeth, back arching and muscles locking against the pain.  How could he have <em>ever</em> forgotten Jörmungandr’s hold on him?  Now that he had been reminded, he couldn’t recall a time when he <em>hadn’t</em> been trapped in the relentless grip of its coils.  Had he ever been free?  He wasn’t sure of anything other than the two fangs lodged in his skull. </p><p>The floor was pressing into his back again and the glass in his skin shifted, burning.  He clenched his teeth and screwed his eyes shut, overwhelmed, able to see nothing but shades of red whenever he opened his eyes.  He spread his wings along the floor, tried to feel who or what was around him.  There was glass between his feathers too.         </p><p>Something – a hand perhaps – briefly touched the top of his head and he hissed, jerking away.  He was in sensory overload and the thought of <em>hands</em> on him in that moment made the fury and fear simmering inside him boil over.           </p><p>They didn’t seem to care.  Hands grabbed his arms and wings, pushing him into the floor every time he tried to move, consequently driving the glass deeper into his skin.  He growled low in his throat, annoyed even through the pain and confusion.</p><p>He peeled his eyes open again.  He wanted to get a look at his captors so he could see if they had souls he could smite as soon as he got the chance, but his vision was still a nauseating slurry of shades of red that told him nothing.  Luckily, the flash of an angel blade was something he would always be able to distinguish through the blur of battle. </p><p>Before he could even think, he surged up with a snarl too deep and too loud to fit in his vessel’s throat.  It rumbled from deep within his true form and he felt his vocal cords tear.</p><p>He tracked the silvery sheen of the angel blade, the only thing he could see clearly through all the red.  Hands grabbed his arms, pulled him back, tried to drag him to the floor again.  His wings beat powerfully, dislodging them, and he surged forward and collided with whatever <em>thing</em> had been foolish enough to try and kill him.</p><p>When his fingers circled the pommel of the blade, there was an unmistakable flare of recognition and he <em>itched</em> inside with a need to call on his grace and connect with the sword.</p><p>Because it was <em>his</em>.  They’d taken <em>his</em> weapon and tried to kill him with it.</p><p>Rage blossomed through him like a poisonous flower, and he was overcome with the desire to annihilate whoever had <em>dared</em> –</p><p>“<em>Castiel, drop your sword!</em>”</p><p>The order shook so badly it almost came apart before it reached him, but Castiel still heard it.  For a split-second, incredulity froze him.</p><p>The <em>audacity</em>.</p><p>The next second, Jörmungandr crushed him and his back and blade hit the floor.  He clutched his hands to his bleeding head, digging his fingers in where he could feel the fangs.  Blackness crept over the horizon of his consciousness and all he could hear was the too-fast beating of his heart.</p><p>Every inch of him, inside and out, was on fire.</p><p>A spike of panic raced through him, but the fangs behind his eyes receded, praising him for his obedience as if he’d made the choice to drop his blade himself.        </p><p>“<em>Why don’t you just kill me</em>?” he gasped through ruined vocal cords, in Enochian because it was the only language he could remember, “<em>Save yourself some trouble</em>.<em>”  </em>He cast around for anything to say that might provoke his attacker into giving something away; something Castiel could <em>use</em>.</p><p><em>“No, Castiel,” </em>a voice answered from somewhere, refusing to show him mercy.</p><p>Something black and bottomless shuddered its way up his throat and Castiel felt tears mixing with the blood in his eyes, burning.</p><p><em>“Why not?!</em>” he screamed as his wrists were pinned to the leading edge of his wings and he was pressed into the floor.  “<em>What do you want?!”</em>  Hands, too warm to be shackles, closed around his ankles and pinned him there, too.</p><p>The coppery scent of his own blood was all he could smell, the tang of it all he could taste. He tried not to let the panic building in his chest take over, but he was pinned like a butterfly and felt just as fragile.</p><p><em>“Shh</em>,” someone hushed, “<em>Don’t fight, Castiel.”</em></p><p>Few words had ever made Castiel want to fight harder.  He sneered, flexing his wings, arching his back, but he couldn’t move an inch.</p><p>He’d been restrained like this before, he suddenly recalled in a slurry of mixed memories.  He remembered drills and blades coming towards his face, he remembered pain, confusion, and the sickening knowledge that he could do nothing to get away.</p><p>Naomi was the name that was attached to those memories and Castiel’s guts churned.  Was he in her chair again? These shackles didn’t feel nearly as solid as what she normally used to restrain him.  Perhaps he could break them.</p><p>He tensed, scraping together the dregs of his energy and focus, readying himself.</p><p>“Hold him!”</p><p>But no, that wasn’t Naomi. Naomi didn’t have helpers.  He let her memory fade away.</p><p>Had he been injured in battle?  Was he lying vulnerable on the war field while the medics tried to help him, pinning him down because he was trying to fight them? It wouldn’t be the first time, but he could never remember having this dizzying sense of disorientation.  No matter how hard he tried, Castiel just couldn’t get his head to stop spinning.  On top of not being able to tell <em>where</em> he was, Castiel wasn’t entirely sure <em>when</em> he was, either.</p><p>He resisted the urge to fight, trying to suss out if it was, in fact, medics just trying to keep him alive.  There was certainly enough blood and pain to explain a battle gone wrong, and an army losing its commander in the middle of a skirmish could be a fatal blow to moral.  They would hold him down to do their job.  They had before, when all Castiel had wanted to do was get back up and <em>fight</em>.  Saffiel had sat directly on him while Galea had fused his leg back onto his body.</p><p>Castiel remembered being annoyed.  He could have won a war with three legs.</p><p>So, he laid there, flexing and relaxing over and over, sure that it was the fangs imbedded in his brain that had scrambled his thoughts so thoroughly.  He tried to calm himself with a vivid fantasy of sinking his claws into the world serpent’s fat coils and stripping the meat from its bones.</p><p>Eventually he became aware of pressure on his chest. Between the icy-hot shards of glass working themselves into his skin and the great serpent’s fangs inside his brain, it was easy enough to ignore.</p><p>That is, until it began to build.  It was nothing like the serpent’s strength but certainly enough to get his attention.</p><p><em>"What?!”</em> He snapped in Enochian.  “<em>What do you want from me?”</em></p><p>“<em>I want you to breathe.  Breathe, Castiel</em>.”</p><p>Jörmungandr squeezed in warning when he didn’t immediately comply, so he inhaled obediently, filling his lungs with both oxygen and hatred blacker than the pits of Hell.</p><p>“<em>Good</em>,” said the mystery voice.</p><p>Castiel envisioned shredding the vocal cords in their throat, but it didn’t help.</p><p>“I know,” said the voice, switching from Enochian to English.  Not a medic, then.  “You’re very angry.  That’s understandable-“</p><p>“<em>Let me go!</em>” Castiel growled back in English.  He didn’t care what language he spoke, as long as his captors <em>listened</em>.</p><p>He tried to free his left arm and wing, twisting, and managing to lift his shoulder off the ground - Jörmungandr made him regret it immediately, coils constricting around him ferociously. He gagged around the sensation of his ribs bowing under the pressure, wings flexing and back arching like he’d been electrocuted.  He froze, groaning, powerless as he was pinned to the ground once more.</p><p>“You are only hurting yourself.” The voice sounded annoyed.  “Now, do as I say.  Breathe and <em>tell me what you can smell</em>.”</p><p>With a growl, Castiel ground his teeth around another spike of rage and sucked some air through his nose, picking apart every molecule out of spite.</p><p>“Fear,” he barked raggedly, satisfied to note that it wasn’t him that scent was coming from.  He was too angry to be scared.</p><p><em>Good</em>.  Whoever they were, they <em>should</em> be scared of him and what he was going to do the second he was free.</p><p>“What else?” the voice demanded.</p><p>Experimentally, Castiel twisted his wrists without thinking about why he was doing it.  The serpent didn’t respond but the hands around him sure did, clamping down and grinding the bones in his wrists against the bones in his wings.</p><p>“Don’t<em>,</em>” the voice warned.</p><p>He stopped immediately, seething.</p><p>“Tell me what else you smell, Castiel.”</p><p>“Blood.” Definitely his.  Definitely a lot of it.</p><p>“What else?”</p><p>“Metal. Gun oil. Books.”</p><p>“What else?”</p><p>Castiel curled his fingers into his palms, wings flexing under his back, knowing the serpent could hear his thoughts.  He took another breath and tried to calm the white noise building between his ears.  It had been a long time since he’d felt this angry and he glared into the bloody haze.</p><p>“<em>What else?”</em></p><p><em>“I don’t know!” </em>he snarled<em>.</em></p><p>The hands pinning him tightened at his outburst.  He was going to rip those hands apart one bone at a time when he-</p><p>Jörmungandr stopped his train of thought, ripping another cry from Castiel’s throat.</p><p>“You <em>do</em> know.  <em>Focus</em>.  What can you <em>smell</em>?”</p><p>Castiel made his lungs expand, desperate to do anything to get Jörmungandr to let go.  He frantically picked through the complex ebb and flow of smells whirling under his nose and tried to identify the most prominent ones.  After a moment, he was able to distinguish the over-reaching scent he hadn’t been able to place before, of earth and salt and a touch of divinity.</p><p>“Humans<em>.</em>”</p><p><em>“</em>That’s right<em>.”</em></p><p>Castiel felt as if his blood was boiling, the metal and gun oil suddenly making sense.  “<em>Hunters</em>,” he growled.  “I’m going to wipe out your entire bloodline,” he promised them darkly as he flexed his wings.  Through the gaps in Jörmungandr’s coils, his grace hissed and bucked, ready to fight.  Ready to <em>annihilate</em>.  His finger’s curled, mimicking his claws, with the desire to sink them in to his attackers and <em>shred</em> them.</p><p>A hand returned to his chest, pressing hard, pulling his focus above the murky depths of his fury.</p><p>“Stay with me, Castiel.  <em>Which</em> humans do you smell?”</p><p>Castiel scrunched his eyes shut, the pain behind his eyes blinding, even as the serpent eased it hold on him.  Parchment.  Tea.  Cinnamon. Flannel…</p><p>Wait.  He knew those smells. </p><p>He breathed deeply, this time of his own volition, eager to place the familiar scent and maybe make some sense out of the chaos in his head.</p><p>And oh…<em>oh</em>.  Of course he knew those smells.  How did he not recognize them right away?</p><p>But he took another deep breath, not trusting what his senses were telling him.  He was too scrambled, in too much pain, to be sure.  Tentatively, and with his anger ebbing in the face of this new possibility, he asked, “Sam and Dean?”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>!  Yes, that’s right!  Sam and Dean.  And if Sam and Dean are here, what does that mean?”</p><p>Castiel hesitated, waiting for the missing pieces of this puzzle to fill in the gaps in his mind, but Jörmungandr’s fangs were taking up too much space.  Had they all been captured by the same enemy?  Were Sam and Dean somewhere beside him, also being tortured?</p><p>His heart tried to squeeze itself dry at the thought, another flare of rage exploding quietly behind his ribs.</p><p>“It means you’re <em>safe</em>, Castiel.  It means you must stop <em>fighting</em> because you may hurt one of them.  They are trying to help you, but you must <em>let</em> them.”</p><p>But Castiel shook his head, his anger morphing into something cold, dark, and vastly more unpleasant.  “How do I know this is real?”</p><p>Because reality felt as slippery as the blood on his skin and he still couldn’t <em>see</em> anything but shades of red, and the fangs in his brain were making it impossible to string two thoughts together. </p><p>He clenched his fists, black hatred coursing through him.</p><p>“Look at them, Castiel.  Look at their souls,” the voice implored with urgency, as if the speaker thought they may be running out of time.</p><p>“I can’t…I can’t <em>see</em>,” he admitted.  He rolled his head, feeling glass grind against his skull, eyes watering.</p><p>“Alright, it’s alright, Castiel.  We’re going to try something else, then.  I want you to use your grace to heal yourself.”</p><p>Castiel was already shaking his head, pulling at the hands pinning him, panic cutting him from belly to throat.  “No!  I can’t, I can’t use my grace –“</p><p>The serpent squeezed him gently in both approval and warning.</p><p>“You must trust me.”</p><p>Castiel wanted to scream.  He tried to pull his legs free, but was held firm.</p><p>“Heal yourself, Castiel, that’s an order.”</p><p>As if the magical chains around him had suddenly been cut, Castiel felt his grace flood him like the valley below a ruptured dam.  It was formidable and violent, and he latched on to the swell of power and rode the wave, drinking in the feeling of being <em>whole</em> again.  He let his grace fill him to the brim and vaporize the glass in his skin and the blood in his eyes, sealing closed the open wounds.</p><p>The moment, the very <em>fraction</em> of a second the last cut knit itself closed, Jörmungandr struck like a viper, coiling around him and constricting possessively.</p><p>The flood and then very abrupt absence of power left him dizzy but at least he was in less pain and his skin no longer felt like it was on fire. </p><p>They were still holding him down and he almost tried to get away before he remembered to stop himself.</p><p>The serpent gave him a tender squeeze.</p><p>Above him, low voices blended together, speaking with urgency. Castiel couldn’t make sense of their tangled words and he tensed, still helpless, still trapped.</p><p>With his vision now clear, Castiel could see Liam kneeling beside him, looking pale, drawn, and old.  Tilting his head back he stared up at Sam, who was the one pinning his wrists to his wings, his large hands nearly able to encircle both. </p><p>The familiar faces did nothing to quell his anger and, when he turned his head, the room spun like an illusion losing power.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Cas,” Sam breathed, looking pained.  His giant hands loosened their grip.</p><p>Castiel cleared his mind and tensed.  He would only need a split second, just a blink, and he could free himself.</p><p>“<em>Don’t</em>, Sam,” Liam barked, “Wait until I tell you.” </p><p>With an agonized sound, Sam’s grip tightened again, and he looked away, as if he couldn’t bare to look Castiel in the eye.  Rolling his head, Castiel could see a fat strip of leather under Sam’s hand, in which there were engraved Enochian sigils that he could tell were meant to dampen his strength.  Or heighten their own against him, it was hard to tell with most of them hidden beneath Sam’s hand, but it explained how they were managing to hold him down.</p><p><em>“Sorry, indeed</em>,” Castiel sneered in Enochian, briefly glancing down to where Dean was kneeling at his feet and holding both his ankles, carved leather strips under each of his hands as well.         </p><p>Defeated, Castiel let his head fall back against the floor with a <em>thunk</em> and stared up at the ceiling.</p><p>Liam was talking again, but Castiel could not find a reason to listen.  Eventually the noise stopped and there was a warm hand on his chest, followed by the cold slice of a blade splitting his skin.</p><p>It pulled a startled cry from his throat and he jerked reflexively, watching his light spill from the edges of the cuts.  He screwed his eyes shut, feeling most of the fight leave him in the face of how completely helpless he was.</p><p>“You’re alright, Castiel.  You’re safe.  Hold still now, you’re alright.”</p><p>He panted through the feeling of being cut open <em>again</em>, wings flexing at his back, wrists twisting in Sam’s grip even though he was trying to keep still.  It didn’t matter though, the hold they had on him was strong and Jörmungandr was hissing in his ear, constricting tighter with every thought Castiel had of trying to free himself.</p><p>So, he tried instead to let those thoughts go, and concentrated on accepting that this was just what was happening.  He didn’t <em>need</em> to escape, he just had to endure.</p><p>Jörmungandr released him in approval.</p><p>So focused was he on convincing himself – and the serpent – that he didn’t even <em>want</em> to escape, Castiel didn’t realise the sigil had been completed until his grace was suddenly gone.</p><p>He clenched his teeth hard enough to hurt.</p><p>His grace had already been smashed into submission, but its sudden absence was like a fresh hole in his chest.  With nothing to control, Jörmungandr released him. </p><p>Castiel would swear to his grave that he could <em>feel</em> the tug of the serpent’s fangs as they slid from his brain like a blade from a cold corpse.</p><p>He groaned, expecting to feel hot blood gushing from the holes in his head.  But there was nothing.</p><p>Castiel’s thoughts began to clear a little.  He was more certain that this was, in fact, the bunker and that it really was Sam, Dean and Liam here with him.  It wasn’t a trick.  It wasn’t an illusion.  He wasn’t in Hell or Naomi’s chair or dying on the battlefield. </p><p>He wasn’t entirely sure he was relieved.  He’d thought figuring out where and when he was would have been comforting; a cooling balm to the white-hot rage burning through him. </p><p>But it wasn’t.</p><p>There was pressure on his chest again and Castiel finally opened his eyes to Dean pressing a towel over the sigil, his face pale.  In the dim light from the backup lights, Castiel could just make out drying tear tracks on his face.  Next to him, Liam was wiping off a gleaming scalpel with a small cloth.  A scalpel that Castiel could tell just by looking had been forged from an angel blade.</p><p>He closed his eyes again, refusing to ponder the implications of Liam having such a tool.</p><p>The humans were murmuring above and around him while the fresh blood was wiped from his chest and Castiel could have listened, if he’d wanted to, if it’d mattered.  But it didn’t.  Hearing what they said meant nothing when he wasn’t free to react to it.</p><p>He took the time to turn his focus inward, trying to figure out if Jörmungandr had <em>actually</em> broken all his bones or if it just <em>felt</em> like he had.  As it turned out, his body was whole, though he felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He was impressed with the illusion; it had certainly felt real.  Even knowing it wasn’t, Castiel was sure he would respond the same way if it happened again.</p><p>Liam was calling his name.  Castiel opened his eyes obediently.</p><p>“Do you know where you are?”</p><p>“Yes.” That was an easy enough question to answer now.</p><p>“You’re still very tense, Castiel, can you relax for me?”</p><p>He hadn’t realized how stiffly he’d been holding himself, straining against Sam’s hold, and he forced his muscles to soften.</p><p>“Good…that’s good.” Liam was pale in the red light and when he pushed his glasses back up his nose, his hand was trembling.  He was more shaken than he was letting on.  “Everything’s alright.”  He barely looked away from Castiel’s face long enough to give Sam a short nod. “Alright, let them go now, Sam, and let’s give them some space. Take a moment to get your bearings, Castiel.  You’re safe, you don’t need to rush.”</p><p>Sam released him like Castiel’s skin burned and despite Liam’s reminder that there was no need to rush, Castiel quickly moved away, lifting and arching his wings up out of the way as he scooted back until the wall stopped him.</p><p>His hands and feet tingled as the blood rushed back into them and he felt the uncomfortable pull of feathers out of place and sticky with blood. </p><p>He licked his lips, throat and mouth feeling dryer than a desert.</p><p>“What happened?” he croaked. He was fairly sure he had everything figured out but wanted to be certain. He raised a hand to massage his throat, vaguely remembering the roar he’d foolishly pushed through his vessel’s throat in his fit of rage.  His vocal cords were healed but still a bit tender.  </p><p>He chose to ignore how badly his hand was shaking.</p><p>The three humans were all still sitting on the floor where Castiel had left them, looking just as wrung out as Castiel felt. </p><p>Dean was the one to answer, but he couldn’t meet Castiel’s eye.  Instead. He scrubbed at his face roughly with both hands. “We…we forgot about the sigil.”</p><p>He looked upset about it and Castiel surreptitiously sniffed the air.  It was unmistakably guilt rolling off Dean in waves of sour musk.  He dared to look at his soul, just a peek, to confirm what he was smelling.  A familiar mix of chartreus and copper undulated around the edges of Dean’s soul, confirming what Cas’ nose was telling him.</p><p>Dean felt guilty.  Deeply, deeply, guilty.</p><p>“Jesus, I’m sorry, Cas.  I had a timer on my watch to make sure this wouldn’t happen, but I took it off yesterday to take a shower and then with everything that happened after Liam got here, I…” Dean stopped talking abruptly, as if someone had gripped his throat too tightly for him to speak.</p><p>“I apologize, as well, Castiel,” Liam told him gravely.  “I severely miscalculated the dosage of tea you could safely handle.  I assumed…well, we’ll talk about that later.  I am so very sorry.”</p><p>Castiel looked down at the fresh sigil glowing across his chest, uncomfortable and annoyed.  “None of you are responsible for me.  It’s my own fault I’m in this mess in the first place.”  He closed his eyes, the truth of that statement weighing heavily on him.</p><p>How had it come to this?  In just ten short years he’d gone from being one of Heaven’s highest-ranking commanders, mobilizing vast angelic armies and developing and deploying successful strategies to keep his father’s creations safe…to <em>this</em>.  Bound, helpless, weakened, and fighting against the desire to take the easy way out of all of it.</p><p>He was always surprised when he thought he’d hit rock bottom but discovered it had only been a branch on the way down.</p><p>And he was still falling.</p><p>Strangely, he felt hollow, which was an improvement over the torrential downpour of emotions he’d been dealing with lately.  It was at odds with what had just transpired.  He felt like he should feel more…more <em>something</em> than he did.  Even his anger was gone.</p><p>It was the three humans across from him who looked like they’d just been through something traumatic. </p><p>He felt a bit like he had after he’d been banished by that woman.  Like he was disconnected or trapped under a heavy glass dome or…something.  It was a very different feeling from when he was actively cutting himself off from his emotions.</p><p>Sam was talking to him and he made an effort to listen.  They’d all been woken by his blast of grace bursting the bulbs in the dormitory wing, he was telling Castiel.   He was apologizing now too, telling him that they’d noticed the glass on the floor and had stopped to put on shoes before they left their rooms.</p><p>Castiel looked away.  It hadn’t occurred to him that he didn’t <em>need</em> to walk barefoot down a hallway full of glass.  Because it hadn’t occurred to him that the brothers would come to him.</p><p>He blinked at Liam, who smiled gently back at him, likely trying to get a read on what Castiel was feeling and likely not getting much.</p><p>Liam’s smile gentled further.  “If you’re wondering what it is you’re feeling…or, I supposed, <em>not</em> feeling, it’s called ‘dissociation’ and it’s a common coping mechanism.  Given what you just went through, it’s understandable and normal that your mind is choosing to utilise such a tactic.”  He angled his head towards Sam and Dean but didn’t take his eyes off Castiel. “I think it may be wise to go outside.  A bit of fresh air will do us all some good.”</p><p>Castiel agreed.  Yesterday, when his emotions had been so heavy they’d literally almost killed him, stepping outside had been miraculously soothing.  Being able to feel the open air and see the stars had made him feel safer at once.  He hadn’t realized how comforting it was to have the sky overhead, until he’d been forced underground.</p><p>And it had been much more effective in controlling his emotions than simply blocking them.  Outside, he wasn’t trapped.  Outside, he was <em>safe</em>. Outside he didn’t need to be anxious or afraid or angry.</p><p>The brothers were looking at him with concern but Castiel didn’t understand why.  He felt better than he had in some time.  Though it was hard to say if he was feeling better or just feeling <em>less</em>, as Liam had said. He couldn’t imagine what feeling better would even look like at this point and thought perhaps feeling less was as good as it was going to get.</p><p>He’d take it.</p><p>He stayed sitting on the floor, having no real cause or desire to move.</p><p>The walls were grey again, he noticed.</p><p>Sam and Dean quietly announced they were going to go fetch some brooms and sweep a path down the hallway.  They left hesitantly, eyes lingering on Castiel, who merely blinked placidly back at them.  Once they were gone, Liam asked if it was alright with Castiel if he moved closer.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Settling down beside him but still a few feet away, Liam fixed him with a heavy stare.  “I’m sorry that we restrained you, Castiel.  I know you’ve experienced trauma related to being restrained in the past and I truly felt dreadful having to do it but I didn’t want you to come to and find you had injured Sam or Dean.  We weren’t able to tell if you were aware of your surroundings and you were…very angry.  You gave us quite a fright.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, out of habit.  He was always apologizing for scaring the brothers.  He wished he wasn’t so frightening.  “I wasn’t aware.  Of anything.  I wasn’t even sure where I was.  You did the right thing, I…” he looked down, fidgeting with his hands in his lap.  He let his wings slide down over his shoulders a bit as he leaned into the wall.  “I wanted to hurt you.  I didn’t know who any of you were,” he added, as if that made it any less horrifying that, had he managed to get free, he likely would have slaughtered them all.</p><p>He glanced over at the strips of leather abandoned on the floor, thanking whoever may be listening for Liam’s foresight.  What might have happened if he hadn’t thought to grab them?  What might have happened if Liam wasn’t even here?  The brothers didn’t have such tools, they wouldn’t have been able to restrain him.</p><p>“Anger is an appropriate response to having your autonomy stripped away while being held down and assaulted,” Liam stated bluntly.  “You are <em>allowed</em> to be angry, Castiel.”</p><p>“I should be able to control myself better.”</p><p>“Even <em>if</em> you weren’t under a spell designed to keep you from doing exactly that, you cannot expect yourself to be able to control your emotions all the time.  Emotions are volatile, they cannot <em>be</em> controlled.  Not completely.”</p><p>Castiel frowned.  “Of course they can.  I never had an issue with it until I…” he glanced at the open door and lowered his voice, able to hear the swishing of brushes not too far away.  “Until I started spending time down here.”</p><p>Liam’s eyes narrowed as if he were focusing on a particularly stubborn corner of a complicated puzzle.  “You never felt <em>anything</em> before you met Sam and Dean?”</p><p>“Well, I felt things, sometimes.  When I allowed it.  I just rarely allowed it.  In my experience, there aren’t many situations that could be improved by allowing yourself to become emotional.  In fact, it’s usually the opposite.”  He shrugged, conceding, “Except perhaps anger.  I’ve accomplished many things simply by allowing myself to become angry enough with an enemy, or with the idea of losing a battle.  I find it an effective motivator.”</p><p>Liam was watching him closely.  “It sounds as if you’ve had very few experiences that didn’t involve war or fighting.”</p><p>Castiel considered that, not sure why it was relevant.  “I hadn’t, before I met Sam and Dean.  But I’ve learned many new things from them. I know how to use a cellphone now and how to work Netflix.  And I’ve tried many human foods, though they all taste the same to me.  I can drive a car.  I can even almost pass for human, as long as I don’t talk too much.”</p><p>Liam smiled, huffing a soft laugh from his nose.  “That’s very good.  Do you have a favourite experience with Sam and Dean?  Something that makes you feel warm, in here,” he tapped two fingers to his own chest, right over his heart.</p><p>“Driving in the Impala,” Castiel answered without hesitation. “I’m usually in the back seat and the windows are open when it’s warm. I don’t even feel trapped at all, in that car.  I feel trapped in most cars.  They’re just…too small.  Sometimes Sam and Dean are fighting over music; sometimes we’re talking about things that don’t matter; sometimes no one is saying anything at all and it’s just quiet and peaceful.  That…I enjoy that, on the rare occasion that it happens.”</p><p>Liam smiled encouragingly.  “That sounds lovely.”</p><p>Castiel’s lips twitched on their own as he recalled the memories.  He realized that Liam was right.  He felt warm just thinking about it.</p><p>“The next time you feel something that makes you feel bad – it might be anger or sadness or anxiety or something else entirely – I want you to try and remember how peaceful it feels to be riding in the back seat of the Impala.  Do you think you could give that a try?”</p><p>Castiel nodded.  It seemed a reasonable request.</p><p>“There’s some color coming back in your eyes now.  Are you feeling a bit more present?”</p><p>“A little,” Castiel conceded.  It was true, the memory had stirred some life back into him and left him feeling warm.  It was, in fact, quite nice. </p><p>He startled then, belatedly realizing what Liam had just said.  “Your glasses are treated with holy fire.”</p><p>“Yes.”  Liam nodded.  “Which is how I know that binding spell is affecting your mind more than you probably realize.  From the moment we found you in the hallway, the colors you were displaying translated as ‘absolute chaos’.  I can only imagine what was going through your mind, it must have been incredibly distressing.”</p><p>It had been, but Castiel was sure Liam didn’t need him to say it out loud.  Instead, he tried to do what Sam and Dean had asked of him before, and explain what it felt like.  Perhaps, with the added help of being able to read his colors, Liam may be able to understand. </p><p>Being the only one bearing Jörmungandr’s weight was exhausting.</p><p>“Do you know who Jörmungandr is?”</p><p>“Of course. The World Serpent, a primordial figure in Norse mythology.”</p><p>“Well, the binding is Norse and when the sigil loses its power, it feels as if the serpent is coiled around me.  All the time.  When I do not obey immediately, he crushes me and it’s…it’s…”  He thought of the sheer terror of feeling an ancient being squeezing the life from him and held Liam’s gaze, so he could see.  “His fangs are in my brain and I can’t think and if I try to fight back-.” Even though the serpent was dormant now, Castiel still swallowed around a spike of cold fear at his unfinished thought.  Part of him was worried Jörmungandr would still be able to hear him.  “All I can do is…not do anything.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Castiel, that sounds terrible.  I can see how frightening it is for you not be able to fight back.”  Liam pursed his lips, looking genuinely sad.  “You’re not used to not fighting, are you?”</p><p>“No,” Castiel sighed, feeling odd recognising that out loud.  “I’m not.” He was always in the process of fighting something.  Often several somethings at the same time.   </p><p>Sam and Dean appeared in the doorway, telling them the path was clear.</p><p>A niggling of guilt wormed its way into Castiel’s chest as the four of them walked the dark hallways.  No one mentioned the mess.</p><p>“I’m sorry about the lights,” Castiel mumbled at the floor, the dried blood covering him from head to toe pulling at his skin.  He flexed his wings backwards, stretching tight pectorals, and grimaced when he felt the bloody mats in his feathers.   Luckily, the bunker had open-concept showers.</p><p>“Don’t worry about it, Cas,” Sam smiled over his shoulder.  “We’ve got tons of spares bulbs.”</p><p>“I’m also sorry for threatening to murder you.”</p><p>Dean chuckled lowly. “Don’t worry about it, Cas.  Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”</p><p>Castiel was eager to get outside and into the open air and stretch, his muscles stiff and sore from the serpent’s corrections and the tension that had been thrumming through him.  But, of course, it was not to be, because when they came to the war room, Mary was standing at the center of it looking shaken.</p><p>Castiel came to a stop behind Liam and the brothers, eyeing the shotgun in her hands and wondering if she ever put it down.</p><p>“Mom?  You ok?” Dean asked, approaching her cautiously.</p><p>“I thought…” her eyes were wide and unsure, flicking past the brothers to Castiel before bouncing away again.  “What happened to the lights?”</p><p>“Oh, er…don’t worry about that.  Happens more often than you’d think,” Dean grinned, gingerly taking the shotgun from her and putting the safety on.  “These old buildings have shitty wiring.”</p><p>Mary’s eyes darted to Castiel again, taking in the freshly glowing sigil on his chest.  Her lips thinned and Castiel could smell the unease – already permeating the air around her – spike when she looked at him.  She knew he was the one to blame.</p><p>He was all too aware of Sam and Dean, watching their mother watch <em>him </em>with distrust written plainly across her face, and Castiel fought the sudden urge to hide, curling his wings around his shoulders.</p><p>Liam stepped smoothly in front of him, forcing Mary’s focus away from Castiel. </p><p>“Oh,” Sam said, looking uncomfortable and scratching the back of his head.  “Mom, this is Liam. He’s gonna…be staying here for a bit.  Liam, this is Mary.”</p><p>She nodded and offered Liam a polite smile.</p><p>It was not returned.</p><p>Dean carefully set the shotgun on the table, looking between Liam and his mother with uncertainty, perhaps sensing the same tension Castiel was smelling.</p><p>“Hello,” Liam said flatly. </p><p>His tone wasn’t openly hostile, but it certainly wasn’t warm, even Castiel picked up on that.</p><p>Liam looked over his shoulder.  “Castiel, why don’t you go get some fresh air?  Try not to wander far, or we’ll worry.”  He smiled tightly.</p><p>Eager to escape Mary’s gaze as well as the intense smell of adrenaline flooding the veins of the four humans, Castiel wasted no time turning and heading for the door.  Unable to help himself, Castiel looked over the railing as he opened the door, relieved to see the humans weren’t watching him, but were staring intently at each other.  They were tense and shifting, looking like they were all waiting for the other to make the first move.</p><p>Castiel didn’t care.  Whatever conflict they were about to resolve, he wasn’t part of it. </p><p>He slipped out the door, wings brushing against the iron, and breathed a sigh of relief when it clanged shut behind him.</p><p>The morning air was crisp and cold on his skin and Castiel closed his eyes, letting it sooth the dull burn still smouldering inside him.  He wished he could appreciate the warmth.  He’d been so cold lately.  But it was the kind of heat that an open wound gave off.  Given the morning’s dramatic activities, he supposed it made sense.</p><p>There was a wind strong enough to sweep the dead leaves across the long driveway and Castiel gratefully spread his wings, curving them to catch the breeze and smelling all the things it had picked up on its journey to him.</p><p>Out in the light of day, Castiel looked down at himself and, despite everything, felt one corner of his mouth turn up.  He was <em>caked</em> in blood.  It had dried in dark crimson splatters and streaks over his arms and hands, looking like dried up river beds.  It had gathered in the creases of his skin, between his fingers and toes, and he felt it tug at the skin on his face.</p><p>He looked over to his spread wing, dried blood looking black against the stark white feathers and purple against the blue ones.</p><p>The twitch in his lips turned into a grin and he felt something light and airy bubble up through his chest and escape his throat as a deep chuckle.</p><p>It had been a <em>long</em> time since he’d stood in the stillness of a dawn, having barely survived a vicious battle.  His muscles ached, his skin was tacky, his feathers were messy and matted with dried blood.  He felt dizzy with the intoxicating mix of relief and victory that only a hard fought – almost lost – battle could give him.</p><p>It was <em>magnificent</em>.</p><p>All that was missing was a field of slaughtered enemies and their blood dripping from his sword.</p><p>He let the calm settled into him, turning his face into the wind.  This was exactly where he belonged, and this was exactly what he was meant to be doing.</p><p>He was an angel; he was made for war, and he would <em>win</em> this battle.</p><p>Before the end, Jörmungandr would be in bloody pieces at his feet.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> please god i need feedback this chapter was the worst it gave me such a hard time</p>
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